Inevitable
by Miss1800s
Summary: A reworking of Branson and Sybil's story.  I didn't think their burgeoning romance would wait until the end of the War.  Set after Episode 3 of Season 2.  More chapters to come, hopefully.  My first fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Slowly, reluctantly Branson withdrew his lips from hers, his hands still framing her face, their breaths still mingling and ragged from the desperate kiss he'd pressed upon her.

Forming a coherent thought through the haze of euphoria rippling through him at that moment was not merely a challenge but a herculean effort, yet reason compelled him to pull back. Opening his eyes Branson actually trembled as he sought out her gaze, afraid of what he might find there; anger, indifference, pity? After all this time, after having his hopes dashed and rekindled once again, he could no longer go on simmering. The revolutionary in him had reached boiling point and he'd kissed her.

_In the garage. Against his Lordship's car. Tom you dolt! Hardly the most romantic setting, _he berated himself_. _Still, the location was no more inappropriate than the object of his affection and privacy was hardly in abundance at Downton.

"Branson." Came Sybil's smoky plea as her lids fluttered open.

_Here it comes. The polite rebuff. _Tom steeled himself, drawing a steadying breath and stared downcast into those deep dark pools but Sybil said not another word. For a long anxious moment Tom waited not daring to move a fraction. He just waited, looking into Sybil's heady gaze and losing himself all over. He barely registered Sybil's hand move tentatively from its grip on his arm to the nape of his neck until her slender fingers twined in his hair and gently tugged his head back down toward her own.

Even through her rigid corset Sybil could feel the warm pressure of Branson's firm figure and her breathing quickened in time with his. She tried reminding herself this was wrong, that her family would not approve but her resolve crumbled, if she was honest it had worn thin ever since he'd declared himself. She had been overwhelmed at first, and embarrassed, but dared not admit even to herself how attractive she'd found his promise of devotion, let alone the man himself.

She wasn't the same naive debutante she once was. She'd done a fair bit of growing up since becoming a nurse and a great many realisations had hit home; about the war, society, her own mind. Feelings that scared her before now did not seem so shocking, particularly that familiar ache in the pit of her belly whenever Branson looked at her the way he did now.

Slowly lowering his head Branson stilled a hairsbreadth from Sybil's face allowing her time to balk, his eyes locking with hers. He held his breath half expecting her to turn away but found only longing reflected back. Her gaze dropped to his lips and his pulse leapt. He needed no more encouragement and brushed his mouth against hers, softly at first. When her lips moved beneath his - in clear response - Branson angled his head and deepened the kiss. _She was kissing him back!_

Revelling in the increasing pressure of his firm lips moving artfully over hers, Sybil stretched up on her toes, wrapped her arms about his neck and boldly parted her lips under his. His blood pounding urgently, Branson responded sliding one arm tightly around Sybil's waist as he leaned into the kiss, his other arm stretching out, seeking the frame of the car as he steered them back against the chassis for support. His senses reeled from the crush of her body against his and the taste of her sweet mouth.

The rattle of the garage door and the squeak of the rusty deadbolt sliding open forced every alert fibre of Branson's being crashing back to earth. He broke the kiss and stepped back from Sybil's embrace in time to hear Thomas call from the doorway - "Mr Branson? His Lordship wants the car brought 'round and if you don't make it sharpish..." He trailed off as he rounded the car.

Trying to steady his ragged breathing, Branson could see Thomas' sharp eyes assessing the scene before him.

"Oh," Thomas smirked "forgive me my lady, I didn't see you there."

Her lips still rosy and swollen from being kissed, Sybil's gaze met Branson's for a moment trying to commune her horror. "It's quite alright." She breathed marshalling her best air of aristocratic authority. "I was just, just coming to find Branson myself, to order the car, for tomorrow."

Even in army uniform instead of his footman's livery, Thomas straightened his posture in Lady Sybil's presence, however insincerely, and stood aside as if awaiting her order. "Of course my lady."

"Well, I'll be going. Thank you Branson." Sybil caught his furtive glance and strode as confidently as she could toward the door. "Thomas." She nodded.

Thomas regarded Sybil keenly as she left, making Branson bristle protectively.

"I'll bring the car directly." Branson said stepping challengingly in front of Thomas drawing his view.

"Very well." Thomas replied, eyeing the immoveable Irishman, before taking his leave.

* * *

><p>Sybil hurried into the house as fast as her long gown would allow, ascending the stairs and praying not to run into her family in her present state. Making it inside her bedroom undetected, she pushed the door closed behind her and rested back on the frame releasing a sigh.<p>

Her heart pounded in her chest as she replayed the encounter. _Oh Sybil, _she scalded herself, _call it for what it was, a kiss, well two actually. _ _Two unexpected, not totally one-sided, rather wonderful kisses, _she reflected, brushing her finger along her lower lip, still in awe.

She hadn't intended to kiss Branson, she had snuck out to the garage after dinner to check he was alright after Carson mentioned he'd taken ill. He seemed well enough when she found him but he made no bones about being upset about something, though he would not reveal what despite her entreaty.

She very nearly walked away, quite determined to leave him to fume alone. One disappointed step towards the garage door was as far as she managed before turning around. His back was to her, broad shoulders clearly tense as he stared glumly down at the workbench before him. She so badly wished to console him. She couldn't help herself from reaching out, laying a hand tentatively on his shoulder giving a reassuring squeeze.

A long moment passed and Sybil began to question whether she'd made a mistake when she felt Branson wrap his long fingers around hers and rub his thumb lightly across her knuckles. It was an unspoken thank you, of sorts, but Sybil understood.

Taking a deep breath, Branson turned decisively to face her, his expression serious though his blue eyes sparkled. He swept her delicate features as if searching for something and Sybil flushed. She stared at him, following his gaze to where it rested between them, to her hand still wrapped comfortably within his but she made no move to retract it. The feel of their fingers warmly entwined fixated her and she trembled.

"Sybil." He whispered hoarsely, capturing her gaze for a pregnant moment. An instant later Branson released her hand, stepped close, framed her jaw in his palms and claimed her mouth with a searing kiss.

A knock on her bedroom door startled Sybil back to the present.

"It's only me m'lady," Anna announced peering into the room. "I've come to help you into bed."

Sybil caught her breath. "Oh Anna, please do come in." She paced automatically to her dresser and dropped into the chair in front of her vanity mirror.

Anna followed, setting to work on pulling pins from her mistress's braid. "Sorry I was late up m'lady, but we're a bit thin on the ground downstairs and what with the wounded Officers - well it's been a big change."

Sybil flashed a weak smile at Anna's reflection. "Not to worry." She assured her maid distractedly.

Glancing at Sybil's mirror image, her sullen countenance did not escape Anna's notice. "Still," she proffered, "change comes to us all, isn't that what they say." The portent in her words was more apt than she could have guessed and not the least bit comforting.

Sybil blinked at herself in the mirror. "Indeed." Kissing one's chauffeur might be considered 'a big change.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sybil ordered the car as she'd said, albeit after the fact (or rather fib), checking with Papa first thing that morning if Branson could drive her to visit an old friend at a clinic in Newby. The clinic was real enough but the friend was fictitious, as were his injuries, an excuse to put some distance between them and Downton. Ripon would have been too conspicuous and one of her sisters would no doubt have begged to join her.

Sybil even wore her nurse's uniform so as not to arouse suspicion, another detail she'd tailored in whilst lying awake half the night staring up at the canopy of her bed. She disliked creating such an elaborate facade and hated lying to her father even more but she simply had to talk to Branson, alone, and straighten this mess out.

Sweeping through the lobby door held open for her by Carson, she halted as her mother flagged her down emerging from the hall with a young maid in tow. "Sybil darling, I had Mrs Patmore make up a lunch basket for you and your friend." Cora ushered the girl and the wicker basket outside to the waiting car.

"Mama!" Sybil protested.

"Now darling, who knows what kind of food they'll have at this awful place if anything at all."

"Mama, it's Newby not the moon." Sybil rolled her eyes but couldn't bring herself to refuse her overprotective mother's gesture. "Very well," she conceded. "Thank you." A delighted Cora kissed her daughter's cheek and waved goodbye as she headed toward the drawing room.

Sybil caught Carson's amused expression as she turned to leave. "Goodbye Carson." She smiled.

"Goodbye my Lady."

Sybil took a fortifying breath and padded out of the house into the courtyard straight into the moment she'd been dreading. Branson, bent over the crank handle, looked up toward the sound of crunching gravel. He stood slowly absently wiping his hands with a rag, his penetrating gaze fixing her for a loaded instant. _How did he manage it, to see into her very soul at a glance and stoke some fire inside of her? _Sybil shook herself inwardly and looked away, cursing her racing heart and blushing cheeks for betraying her.

Chin resolutely firm, she walked briskly to the passenger door suppressing the urge to run like a rattled deer as Branson neared. Gaze never leaving her face, he unlatched the door and she stepped quickly into the refuge of the cabin. Half a minute later Branson took the wheel and the car lurched forward, chugging down the long drive.

* * *

><p>A few miles down the open road and Branson could no longer brook the awkward silence. "You didn't tell them then?" He prompted. "Your family?"<p>

Sybil looked genuinely confused. "Tell them what?"

Branson swung a knowing glance over his shoulder, his lips quirking into a roguish smile. Sybil caught his meaning.

"Oh." She frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course not!"

"It's not that far-fetched y'know."

"What? Telling my father over scrambled eggs and the morning paper that I kissed the chauffeur? You can't be serious?"

"So you admit you kissed me?" He teased.

Sybil cursed inwardly. "I could hardly deny it." She owned, smoothing her skirt and blushing into her lap. "But it doesn't change anything. You must know that."

"It changes everything." He contested boldly. "You're just too scared to admit it."

Sybil humphed and stared frustratedly out the window at the passing scenery. She was scared alright, she had good reason to be. The fact that he challenged her on it, on most things, only irked her more. The silence stretched again and grey clouds rolled into view threatening to soak the countryside.

"Turn right up ahead," she pointed. "There's a narrow lane behind those trees over there."

Branson blinked. "I don't understand, I thought we were going to visit your friend. Newby is this way."

Sybil relished throwing Branson off guard for a change. "But we're not going to Newby."

"We're not?"

"No."

"What about your friend?"

"Oh him. I made him up." She said matter-of-factly.

Now Branson really _was_ confused and strangely relieved. When Carson had passed on Lord Grantham's instructions to take Lady Sybil to visit an old friend, he'd paled, conjuring mental images of some dandy from London who'd danced and flirted with her at a ball. "Thank Christ for that." He muttered.

Sybil's brow hiked in surprise. "Why Branson, you sound almost jealous."

Branson recalled his urge to ring the non-existent cad's neck. "Jealous? Of course I am." He half swivelled in his seat, meeting her stunned face. "I'm jealous of anyone who gets to spend time with you."

Leaving his candid revelation hanging in mid-air and Sybil's mouth agape, Branson turned his attention back to the road. Following her directions, he steered the car carefully off the main road and along the lane, which was barely more than a dirt track.

His words still resonating, Sybil felt oddly bereft at the loss of Branson's warm gaze and regretted goading him so. She seemed to be guilty of always underestimating the determined chauffeur, the one man who demanded the most from her, who disoriented her and made her question who she was and who he was and how things really were.

Sybil swallowed the lump in her throat and looked through the window at the approaching stone cottage.

"We're here." She declared croakily, sitting forward on the edge of her seat.

Branson rounded the building and brought the car to a standstill in the yard behind the house. He studied the cottage and threw Sybil a questioning glance before stepping out of the vehicle. Dutifully opening the passenger door, he handed Sybil down to the muddy ground, holding her hand and gaze for a moment longer than was necessary.

"Where are we?" He asked, watching her get her bearings.

"A farm, or it will be. This land belongs to my father. He's restoring the cottage and intends to let it - when it's ready." Sybil stared proudly up at the old stone cottage as she strolled casually to the door, stalling as she realised Branson was not beside her.

"It's quite alright." She beckoned. "No-one's here, the house is empty."

Branson remained by the car, his gaze flitting nervously from her to the cottage and back again when it dawned on Sybil that she'd neglected to fill Branson in on her plan. "I'm sorry, I should've said. The friend I needed to see - is you."

Branson stared dumbfounded. "What d'you mean?"

Sybil hesitated. "I thought we should talk," she explained to the floor, "...away from Downton, about ..."

"...us." He chimed in, a disarmingly cocky grin lifting the corner of his lips.

Sybil blinked up at him and was suddenly conscious to her toes of the flaw in her 'grand plan'. Cheeks burning she continued to the door. Branson followed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 **

Thomas stood sheltering under a weathered brick porch, blowing palls of smoke into the servant's courtyard waiting for the heavens to open over Downton. He took another drag from his cigarette, staring skyward, meditating on his good fortune and how to improve them further.

"What are you doing out 'ere?" O'Brien asked, interrupting his musings.

Thomas didn't mind, he was always glad of O'Brien's like-minded company.

"Just having a smoke." He smiled, offering the surly old maid a cigarette from his nearly empty packet.

O'Brien took one freely and waited for Thomas to produce a match. Her eyes narrowed. "Okay, out with it you."

"What 'you on about?" He grinned smugly, lighting her cigarette and blithely tossing the spent match into the cobbled yard.

"Don't give me that Thomas Barrow. I know that look." She said, resting back on the opposite side of the archway.

"What look?" He scoffed.

"Like the cat that got the cream, that's what."

"It's nothin.' Not yet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She asked impatiently.

Thomas blew curls of black smoke into the dripping rain. "Let's just say I may have stumbled onto something. Something that'll blow the roof off this place that's for certain sure."

O'Brien fell silent, her first thought was for Lady Cora but she was careful not to let it show. "Is it about Lady Mary?" She pressed. If there was a scandal afoot at Downton, Lady Mary was usually at the centre of it.

Thomas smirked. "Not Lady Mary."

She was about to ask 'who' when Thomas cut her short. "I can't say more, not 'til I'm sure." Taking a last puff, Thomas flicked his cigarette to the ground and squashed the butt beneath his boot. "But don't worry Miss O'Brien," he beamed, "when the time comes, you'll be the first to know."

O'Brien counted that a blessing but couldn't quell her concern for her Ladyship. She smiled back at Thomas as endearingly as she knew how and watched him disappear back in doors. She would have to tread carefully_._

* * *

><p>Branson trailed closely behind Sybil as she led the way through the kitchen into a narrow hallway. The air in the dim corridor was dense with the smell of freshly sanded timber but it wasn't the dust or oaky scent that constricted his chest. The vision of Sybil, chin set high, skirt swaying tenaciously, leading him God-knows-where (he didn't care), made his heart swell.<p>

He sensed her awareness pique and resisted the urge to reach for her right there. He knew full well that she was hesitant but there was no mistaking the emotion invested in 'that kiss' - it had almost floored him. It also gave him hope. Following in her wake, he was now more certain than ever that she returned his feelings.

Sybil halted before a door at the end of the hall and, squeezing the handle, went inside as routinely as she might her own room at Downton. Branson followed willingly, stepping into the centre a sparse sitting room empty but for a single settee facing a large stone fireplace. He glanced around the room, cap and gloves hanging loosely by his side. His searching gaze swept the newly plastered walls and freshly lain floorboards and came to rest on Sybil, her shapely form framed in light filtering in from the window. Looking his fill, Sybil blanched.

"Papa never troubles his manager to lock this place," she said, consciously clasping her hands before her belly. "He says there's no need, there's nothing here to steal - not yet anyway." She chatted on inconsequentially, trying to avoid his eyes. "You should've seen it before - near ruin until Papa saved it." She added, looking about the room with genuine fondness. "I think he wanted someone in the family to share it with. Cousin Matthew was gone, Edith had no interest in it, and Mary, well -."

Sybil paused. "Why are you smiling?" She asked, shifting nervously under his appraising gaze, picking at her apron.

Branson tried quashing the authentic smile from his lips, and failed. "It's just, you look so at home here," he said earnestly, catching her gaze and holding it. Even unfurnished the quaint cottage suited her, much better than the Abbey, he thought, keeping that last to himself. All that grandeur and formality may be in her blood but it wasn't in her nature. She was warm and kind and didn't care about class anymore than she cared about pomp and ceremony.

'_Oh', _she mouthed in surprise, her lips twitching bashfully. She did love it here but refrained from saying so. His irritating ability to read her like a book already had her at a disadvantage.

Branson turned, placed his gloves inside his cap and dropped them casually onto the sofa. "So?" He said, perching on the armrest and planting his hands in his pockets. His gaze returned to her face. "Why bring me here?"

Sybil struggled to remember that herself, her composure now thoroughly rattled by his directness. More annoyingly, the stirring way he lolled against the sofa, his long legs stretched out before him, distracted her no end. She shrugged. "I told you why," she said, stiffening.

"To talk, about us?" He repeated, a tone of disbelief tainting his words. There had to be more to it than that.

Sybil hesitated. "To apologise, really" she corrected, cringing even as she said it. "I should never have ... encouraged you," she said choosing her words carefully. "It was wrong of me, I'm sorry." Apparently the words left a sour taste in her mouth however delicately she put it.

Sybil's apology stung like nothing else. "You can't mean that."

"I do." She insisted, chin lifting. "This - us - it mustn't go on."

Branson pushed off from the sofa and fought hard to keep a rein on his temper. "Sybil, I know you think this -" he gestured between them "- isn't proper, but -"

"Proper?" She spat, wounded by that single word. "You think me that shallow?"

"I think you're so afraid of being in love with a lowly chauffeur that you're hiding behind propriety!"

Sybil tried not to let his words hurt her but it was too late for that. His barb had lashed precisely where it was aimed - her heart - exposing the painful truth. A tense silence followed. "You're right." She said at last.

Branson stood, staggered. _Which part was he right about?_

Sybil didn't give him chance to ask. She levelled him a sobering look and drew a shaky breath. "I am afraid," she admitted solemnly, her voice husky. "I have a lot to lose - my family, my home, my job." Tears burned her eyes but she blinked them away. "I'm not blind, I know the war will change things - _is_ changing things," she corrected herself. "But it won't be enough, not for my family. I know them, and they may never accept us," she choked back a sob. "I wish they would - very much so." Sybil felt weary and raw and ready to cry.

Branson felt like a bastard. He'd baited her to the brink of tears and now that he had his confession he wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and comfort her. She looked so vulnerable - it was heart-wrenching. Sybil brushed a tear from her cheek and the decision was made for him. _To hell with propriety!_ Branson heaved a breath and closed the distance between them. He drew her into his arms and held her tightly to his chest, resting his jaw against her temple.

Sybil tensed for a fraction of a second and then relaxed into his strong embrace releasing a soft whimper into his shoulder. The muffled cry nearly undid him. He cradled her head possessively and pressed his lips to that damn headscarf of hers. "I'll take you home," he sighed, forcing his arms to release her.

Instantly Sybil clutched to the fabric of his jacket. Her eyes met his, stormy and unsure and burning with questions.

Branson smiled ruefully. "Sybil."

The soft rumble of her name vibrated to her core. It felt like both a plea and a warning.

"I'm in love with you and I want a life with you," he told her plainly, "but I want you to be happy."

Sybil's heart caught in her throat.

"You said it yourself your family won't accept us - not right away, maybe never I don't know." His jaw clenched. "The thing of it is, even knowing what I'm asking you to sacrifice - I'm still asking."

Branson roved her face hoping for a hint as to what she was thinking behind those beguiling brown eyes. He slid a hand up to cup her cheek and felt her quaver. God did he want to her kiss her, to claim her. He girded himself determined to let the decision be hers.

Sybil was reeling, her head spun and her conscience was in tatters. The man before her, laying his heart bare once again, stirred her senses witless and ignited something inside her that scared her, something she'd been hiding from, too afraid to put a name to. But what price would loving him cost her - she didn't want to lose her family. The silence stretched and she could sense Branson's disappointment welling. His warm hand trembled and then eased from her cheek. Panic overwhelmed her but it was her heart not her conscience screaming at her to act. She couldn't find the words in time to speak them and did the only thing she could - covered his hand with her own and held on for all she was worth. Their gazes tangled and a beat of recognition passed between them.

"I don't want to lose you either," she whispered huskily, pressing her cheek into his warm palm.

Branson smiled softly and shook his head. "Never." He dipped his head and his lips fell to hers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note from author: **Thank you for all your encouraging reviews. I've finally found some time and inspiration to continue this story. I will try to keep the chapters coming if they're liked.

**Chapter 4**

As the motor rolled to a stop in front of the Abbey, Branson silenced the engine and sat for a long, thoughtful moment watching the rain pelt fiercely against the windscreen. Squeezing the steering column, he resisted the temptation to glance behind him and, with sheer force of will, wrested himself from his seat into the torrential rain, quickly rounding the car, his shoulders hunched against the downpour. He unlatched the passenger door and held out a hand, reminding himself to breathe as Sybil slid her fingers over his. Hesitantly accepting his aid, she stepped into the deluge alongside him.

Branson couldn't tear his eyes away from her. She looked almost ethereal in the mist, droplets of water staining her cheeks like tears. Paying no mind to the weather, Sybil stood rooted to the spot, regarding the closed door to her home rather warily. She swallowed and turned her sad gaze from the looming house to face him, blinking through the rain to share his torment. Tom opened his mouth to reassure her but found his voice replaced by Mr Carson's baritone exclamations. "My dear Lady Sybil, saints preserve us! You'll catch your death! Come along inside and I'll have Daisy fix some tea to warm you."

Shaking open a large black umbrella Mr Carson trotted towards them, placing a fatherly arm about Sybil's person leading her towards shelter. Tom felt his stomach lurch at the thought of letting her go and managed to give Sybil's fingers a light squeeze before she was wrenched away. Standing in the cold, rain dripping from his cap, watching the woman he loved being escorted away to a place he could not follow - Tom felt utterly helpless. He hadn't imagined it would be so hard bringing her back to Downton, for however short a time, but as Sybil looked back over her shoulder imparting a warm smile, the promise of one word kept him going - "Soon."

Sybil left Carson in the lobby and trudged dazedly towards the staircase. "Sybil dear?" _Blast_! Sybil rolled her eyes at her Granny's distant summons and stopped in her tracks. She needed time to catch her breath and wasn't sure she was entirely equal to the task of performing just yet. Sighing, Sybil turned on her heels back towards to the drawing room, patting her chignon and tucking a few stray damp locks neatly under her headscarf.

Her grandmother was perched, afternoon tea in hand, on the adjacent chair to her mother, their heads together like a pair of gossip-mongering confederates. Judging by the thinly veiled curiosity plastered on their faces, Sybil suspected she was top of the list.

"Ah Sybil, you're back. Your mother and I ..." a frown formed on her grandmother's feather-capped forehead. "Good heavens, what on earth have you been up to?"

Sybil's eyes widened, fearing the secrets of her heart were somehow visible for all to see.

"Your petticoat is disgraceful," said Violet aghast, pointing a gloved finger at Sybil's skirt.

Sybil glanced down to find her hem caked with mud from the farmyard, a stark reminder of her day with Tom.

"Don't tell me you've decided to take up farming like your sister." Her grandmother sniffed.

"No of course not," Sybil refuted, flushing. "I ... the rain ..." she stammered, trying to think of an excuse.

"I hope you didn't meet your soldier _friend_ looking so dishevelled," Cora admonished.

"Indeed." Violet concurred. "One doesn't catch fish with a shabby net."

Sybil's head began to ache and she rubbed her temple at the banality of it all.

* * *

><p>Thomas flitted from drawer to drawer, pulling open one after the other, cupboard after box, rummaging hastily through each nook and cranny the garage had to hide. <em>Come along Mr Branson, everyone keeps love letters somewhere close to home.<em> He had himself, regretfully, much to the glee of a certain Duke.

"Damn!" Thomas slammed the last toolbox lid shut. He felt sure he'd find something to incriminate that cocky teague, some note or bauble, but nothing. Not a thing, not even in the chauffeur's cottage - he'd checked there too.

Doubt began to spring its seed - perhaps he'd been mistaken. The mind plays tricks after all. Perhaps he'd misread the awkwardness of their exchange. Thomas shook his head, dismissing that notion offhand. He wasn't wrong. He might not be attuned to the female mind but he knew men, all kinds of men, and there was no mistaking the primal reaction roused in Mr Branson that night.

Still, he had no evidence that Lady Sybil reciprocated and that was all that counted. "Bugger." Raking his good hand through his hair, Thomas turned towards the door bang into the purr of an engine growing louder by the second. He froze at the sound of the motor parking outside and footsteps marching straight towards him. The door creaked open and Thomas scrambled for the first object within reach. There was nowhere to hide, his only recourse was -

"Corporal Barrow?" Said a surprised Irish voice.

The last person Thomas wanted to run into. "Mr Branson." He smiled amiably.

Branson regarded him with no small amount of suspicion. "Is there something I can help you with?" He asked, eyeing Thomas's clenched hand.

Thomas held his hand aloft to reveal the shiny metal tool in his grasp. "I needed to borrow ... a wrench."

Branson frowned.

"To fix my bicycle." Thomas added for detail. _If Branson believed that one he was a bigger fool than he first thought._

Branson strolled to the workbench, picked out another tool and offered it to Thomas. "That's a ratchet you've got there, Corporal."

Thomas exhaled. He narrowed his eyes and made a show of examining the tool in his palm. "So it is." He agreed, swapping the tools and itching to wipe that smug look off Branson's face. Brushing passed the chauffeur he vowed to do just that, preferably whilst improving his own situation.

"Be sure to return it." Branson called after him in a sarcastic tone, alluring to Thomas's past indiscretions.

Pausing at the threshold of the garage door, Thomas winced. _Oh he'd return the favour alright, in spades_. "It's none of my business Mr Branson," he said evenly, "but you really ought to be more careful." Thomas noted Branson stiffen with satisfaction, allowing him a moment to digest the threat for what it was. "If Mr Carson sees the state of those boots he'll have your guts for garters." Thomas nodded in the direction of Branson's mud-streaked hessians and smiled smugly.

Recalling the sloppy farm, Branson instinctively looked down to check what he had already guessed, that his boots were indeed layered with dirt. He couldn't help but savour the memory of how they came to be so, of carrying Sybil back across the muddy yard to the car. Naturally she had objected to being carried, at first, and made a valiant attempt to cross the quagmire unaided. The pleading looks she threw him and her mortification at having to be rescued he would never forget, nor the sensation of scooping her into his arms and seeing the flare of awareness in her darkened eyes.

Branson looked back up to find Thomas gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sybil hurried across the lawn hugging the hedgerow, glancing watchfully over her shoulder from time to time. The hour was late and the chill night air damp and stale from the earlier downpour. Window-shaped lights dimmed behind her as she scuttled away from the house, hiking the hem of her gown enough to free her ankles. The cool moonlit air brushed her stockings and Sybil shivered. She could almost hear her granny tut disapprovingly.

By the time she reached the south drive, her muscles were coiled tensely and her breathing harried. How foolish she was taking this risk. She couldn't bear her parents disappointment if she were caught, anymore than she could ignore the pull that brought her out here in the dead of night. Pressing on purposefully, she rounded the wattle fence and slowed several metres from the warm glow of the garage. The door lay ajar revealing the sight she'd been longing to see. Silently Sybil inched forward, releasing a breathy sigh, absorbing every stirring detail.

Oblivious to his watcher, Tom tinkered away under the hood of the Renault, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a small portable lamp illuminating the concentration etched on his handsome features.

Sybil stood transfixed, watching unabashedly from the shadows as he worked, unable to keep herself from tracing every pleasing plane of his face, every taut flex of his shirt. All through dinner she had thought of little else, the table chatter passing her by while she itched to talk to Tom, to be near him, to feel those capable hands and that piercing blue gaze upon her.

As if sensing her, Tom looked up in her direction. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and believe the vision before him. He rose, smiled and watched intently as she approached.

"You look very fine," he remarked, raking the full length of her attire.

Sybil blushed, self-consciously smoothing the creamy silk of her long gloves. "Everything I own is from my season before the War," she offered. "I'm trying to wear them out." She stepped closer despite herself.

Tom nodded, grabbing an old rag and rubbing the oil from his hands taking his turn to feel self-conscious. The truth was he couldn't imagine a frock, apron or shift in which Sybil wouldn't look utterly beautiful, and he had imagined quite a few. She looked every bit the lady in her evening dress, black and gold silk shimmering in the dimness. A picture of elegance. He was almost afraid to touch her and break the spell. Almost. Discarding the rag he caught her gaze, held it and found the acquiescence he sought. He drew a deep breath and reached for her.

His fingers found her forearm and slid down to her palm making her skin tingle with nervous anticipation. Her eyes followed the slow trail with excruciating awareness, of a growing need, for him. A shiver swept through her.

Tom regarded the cut of Sybil's gown and the rosy hue of her cheeks. "You must be cold," he declared with some concern, not entirely off the mark. Before she could protest, he released her hand and turned to retrieve his jacket from the cab of the motor. "Here." Tom shook out his thick green driving coat and, without hesitation, leaned around Sybil swinging it over her shoulders.

Fighting the urge to focus on his unbuttoned collar, Sybil shrugged into the oversized jacket inhaling the heady scent suffusing the fabric (his scent), suddenly very much warmer.

Tom adjusted the lapel. "You'd make a grand chauffeur," he teased.

Sybil glanced down to inspect herself and chuckled. The jacket swamped her and must have looked absurd. Not that she minded, quite the opposite. She was far too delighted wrapped in the velvety folds of Tom's jacket to object.

"I didn't expect to see you so soon," he said in a low voice.

Sybil blinked up into searching eyes and was suddenly a little unsure. She wanted to tell him that she couldn't go another hour without seeing him. That she hadn't wanted their day together to end. She chewed on her lower lip, trying to find the right words and the courage to say them. "I..."

"I'm glad." He cut in.

Sybil melted. She cast him a wistful look and instinctively stretched out one hand, laying it over his heart. "I had to come," she murmured, finding her voice.

Tom almost came undone. The intimacy of her touch and the realisation that she'd missed him hit home. He placed his calloused hand atop hers and pressed it closer still, splaying her fingers across his chest. Her slow intake of breath was audible and her dark eyes misted.

"I don't know if I can wait," she uttered croakily, feeling his pulse beat faster beneath his shirt. "And I'm sure granny has her suspicions." Tom's eyes widened. "It's alright; she thinks the mysterious friend I called on is my new beau."

A hint of a smile curved his lips. "Doesn't miss a trick your grandmother does she?" he said dryly sounding oddly impressed.

Sybil gave his chest a little push. "It isn't funny," she said, trying to sound scolding. "I don't like lying to them, they don't deserve it."

Tom relented, cradling her head with his other hand and dropping a soothing kiss to her forehead. "Just give me time to make some plans and then no more hiding, I promise." He pulled back to look her in the face. "I won't leave on a wing and prayer," he told her candidly, finding their role reversal a touch ironic. Until now Sybil had been the sensible one. "I want to be able to take care of you, provide for you."

"You know I don't care about all of that."

"I do," he replied, conscious that her health and happiness were now as vital to him as air. "And so will your father."

Sybil sighed and shook her head a little as if to say _"men!"_ but she didn't disagree. He looked so endearingly hopeful that she hadn't the heart to argue. She doubted her father would give his consent in any case but she didn't say it. She didn't want to think about that. Right now all she could do was follow her heart. "Alright," she acceded.

Tom smiled equal parts happy and amazed. He had expected his stubborn suffragette would need more convincing. He loved that about her, how different she was from the rest, how determined and defiant. The perfect blend of rebel and nurturer.

He laced his fingers with hers so that they were holding hands against his chest. "Besides," he said with a mischievous quirk of his brow. "I have it on good authority that your '_friend_' is expecting another visit from his favourite nurse."

Sybil feigned surprise. "_Is _he?" she asked archly.

Tom nodded, slowly. "He's counting on it."

* * *

><p>"Just do it Miss O'Brien, just do it!"<p>

O'Brien all but stormed from Mrs Hughes' office, scowling with thinly veiled indignation. "It's not fair is all I'm sayin'," she muttered, purposely within earshot.

She whisked into the kitchen, her tight curls bobbing unceremoniously on top of her head and cursed inwardly, wondering why it was always her misfortune to get lumbered with such menial duties when there were others more suited to the task, she thought, noticing Ethel idling with a cup of tea at the kitchen table.

Thomas, seated opposite, looked up. "What's up w'you?" he asked from the side of his mouth, a lit cigarette dangling from the other.

"Lady Muck," O'Brien replied tersely.

Thomas narrowed his eyes. "Mrs Hughes?"

"Anna," she corrected vehemently. "Just because she's pining for Mr Bates I'm left like Cinderella to clean this little lot," she moaned indicating the laundry hung over her arm. "What am I, a washer-woman?" she asked rhetorically. "It's going to take all night to soak this mud off."

Thomas's ears pricked.

O'Brien ranted on. "I don't know why I should clean nurses' uniforms anyhow. That should be their own look out."

"Mud?" Thomas probed.

"Pardon?"

"You said mud?"

"Did you lose your hearing at the Front n'all?" O'Brien scoffed, sharing a bemused look with Ethel. "That's what I said. Anna gets off Scott-free while yours truly is left to slave over Lady Sybil's filthy apron on top of everything else. It isn't right."

Thomas stood abruptly, stumped out his cigarette and lifted the hem of Sybil's dirty skirt. "Miss O'Brien I could kiss you," he smiled, inexplicably pleased.

"Will you 'eck," she asserted taking a step back, watching after him as he waltzed from the room.

Ethel giggled. "I wouldn't say no to a kiss from him."

"Why doesn't that surprise me," O'Brien retorted.

Ethel's amused smile dropped. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Only that it's no secret that you would kiss anything in trousers." O'Brien made no effort to hide her satisfaction at the flicker of hurt crossing the young maid's face.

Ethel thinned her lips. "At least men '_want'_ to kiss _me_. Who'd want to kiss a dried up old-"

"Ethel!" barked Mrs Hughes appearing in the doorway looking stern. "That will do."

"But she-"

The affront on Mrs Hughes' dour face made Ethel reconsider pleading her case.

"Yes Mrs Hughes," she said through gritted teeth.

Mrs Hughes softened. "Well, it's late," she sighed. "Off to bed with you."

"Yes Mrs Hughes." Ethel rose swiftly from her seat, pushed home her chair and sulked towards the stairs.

Mrs Hughes huffed with exasperation. "That girl is her own worst enemy," she grumbled half to herself. Turning to leave, she acknowledged Miss O'Brien with a civil nod and made her way back to her office. She reached her door and paused with her hand on the knob, throwing a confounded glance back towards the kitchen. She must be mistaken, she thought, but she could've sworn Miss O'Brien looked almost pained. It was a look of lament that she recognised well. Surely Ethel's cutting remark hadn't wounded Miss O'Brien's impenetrably thick skin, she mused, shaking off the notion that the seasoned lady's maid could feel anything like regret.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed three o'clock as Cora passed by, traversing the officers sitting down for afternoon tea and games. Smiling genially, she weaved her way towards the library stepping aside for a nurse pushing a young captain in a wheelchair in the direction of the terrace. Cora noted the book in his lap and supposed the nurse was taking the pasty-looking man for some much-needed fresh air and sunshine now that the clouds had parted. Without meaning to, her eyes drifted to the dip in his blanket where his right leg used to be and her smile turned sympathetic.

It could easily have been Matthew in that chair, she realised, though she thanked heaven it was not. By God's good grace Matthew, and William, were alive and well somewhere in France and due to return home on leave any day now.

Cora rapped on the library door. "Robert?" she called, leaning inside. "Are you busy?"

Seated at his writing desk, Robert gladly set down his fountain pen. "Nothing that can't wait," he replied, his countenance all the brighter for his wife's timely interruption. "What is it?" he enquired, squeezing Cora's hand affectionately as she crossed to the settee.

The brooding Countess peered up from beneath her lashes looking somewhat sheepish.

"Oh dear," Robert chimed, recognising that guilty look. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this."

Cora took a breath. "I'm afraid I had another run in with Cousin Isobel," she admitted.

"I see," he said evenly, not really surprised. It was hardly news that the pair didn't see eye-to-eye. "What happened this time?"

Cora shrank back into her seat. "She's leaving Downton."

That news _did_ surprise him. Robert's raised brow asked 'why'.

"She plans to go somewhere her services will be _valued_," Cora continued, repeating her cousin's sentiments. In the heat of their exchange, she may have implied that Isobel was no longer needed, or wanted, at Downton but she had said nothing that wasn't true and certainly had no reason to feel guilty when Isobel had made her own rude opinion so plain.

Robert cocked his head at his wife. "_Cora_?" he pressed dubiously, sounding much like a parent coaxing an errant child to confess to their misdeed.

"I didn't tell her to go Robert," Cora insisted in answer to his unvoiced insinuation.

Robert's chiding brow rose a notch further. "But you didn't encourage her to stay?"

Cora grimaced. "No," she owned, _and I have no wish to_, she thought to herself. "You know how overbearing Isobel can be," she added in her defence. "And I don't appreciate being told how to run my own house."

Robert sighed wearily and rose to sit himself beside his wife. "I understand," he said gently. "I don't question your judgement. I have to say I thought at the time Doctor Clarkson's decision to give you joint management was a little presumptuous. It was bound to end with pistols at dawn," he mocked.

Cora pulled a face, clearly unimpressed with his analogy.

Robert petted her clasped hands in a gesture of reassurance. "I'm sure it's for the best." He stood and returned to his desk.

Cora humphed. "I suppose I should try to talk to her before she leaves. Smooth things over."

"I think that would be a very good thing indeed. It doesn't do to quarrel with family during wartime."

"I'll remember you said that," Cora replied with a wry smile. She pushed up from the settee and strolled to the door feeling a little better for talking to her astute husband.

Robert re-seated himself at his desk to tackle the waiting pile of correspondence. "Oh by the way," he looked up again. "Has Sybil mentioned this chap to you? The injured fellow? I only ask because she borrowed the car to go and see him again today. That's twice in as many days - she must be keen on the man."

"She didn't tell me his name if that's what you mean," Cora answered blithely.

"Doesn't that strike you as a little odd? Sybil isn't normally so secretive."

"Oh Robert, you're jumping to conclusions," Cora admonished dismissively. "It does Sybil credit that she visit the poor man. She is a nurse after all."

"Perhaps you're right."

"Don't fret," Cora urged. "If Sybil is that smitten with him, I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."

* * *

><p><em>I can't believe I nearly gave this up<em>, Sybil thought as she sat drowsily in the crook of Tom's arm, her legs curled up on the sofa beside her. She felt a pang of guilt remembering how long she'd spent fighting her feelings, wasting precious time playing by the rules when every day so many men sacrificed their lives for their country forever to be denied the chance at love.

Resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder, Sybil watched with idle fascination as her hand, lolling on his waistcoat, rose and fell in time with his breathing. She would not deny herself this chance again, she resolved, pushing aside the nagging doubt that her family might not see it so clearly. She desperately wanted to believe they would come around to the idea, given time, but she knew deep down that was a pipe dream, they both did. They wouldn't be back here otherwise, staring at an unlit fireplace, sitting on a dustsheet covered sofa in an empty room, hiding from the judgemental eyes of the real world.

The time was coming when they would face the music and tell her family the truth. The irksome rolling in the pit of her stomach reminded her constantly of that much. Soon their peace, their secret slice of happiness would be open to the scrutiny of a pragmatic world and its disapproving people. But not yet. Not today. Right now she was determined to enjoy the present. Nestling into the warmth of Tom's lean form, Sybil sighed contentedly and let her imagination runaway with itself, conjuring images of future lazy afternoons in the arms of the man she loved.

Tom craned his neck to look down at the peaceful body huddled beside him and hugged her closer. So much had changed in such a short space of time. He was still pinching himself. No longer was it just 'him' but 'they', 'we', 'us'. Now all his plans revolved around making a life with her, to fulfilling his promise to make her happy, and never had he felt a greater purpose. He felt empowered. '_She'_ empowered him. He would show her, show them all, that her faith in him was justified. He would do anything for her. He would take on the world, or worse, the Granthams.

He wasn't afraid of them. Not by any means. Lord Grantham could take a running jump as far as he was concerned. But whether he liked it or not they_ were _her family, a bond he had no desire to break. He doubted very much they would be quite so accepting of his relationship with Sybil. They would have no compunction in swaying her to break it off with him and waste no time bringing her round to their way of thinking. Listening to Sybil's soft shallow breaths, Tom's chest tightened. He knew Sybil's heart, he didn't doubt the strength of her feelings, but still he couldn't quell the uneasy sense of foreboding that she might soon be made to choose.

The idea disturbed him more than he cared to admit. He glanced over his shoulder toward the window suddenly anxious. The afternoon was wearing on. Sybil had supposedly been in Newbury for hours visiting her recovering 'friend', a cover story that would only buy them so much time. Sybil was a wonderful nurse but even he might question such dedication.

As much as he hated to say it, "we should be getting back," he murmured, reluctantly nudging her.

Sybil stirred. "Must we?" she grumbled, toying with one of his buttons. "Can't we just stay here forever?"

Tom smiled. He liked the idea this had become _their_ cottage. "We could," he agreed light-heartedly, playing along. "We could grow our own food in the garden, make clothes out of the dust sheets," he laughed.

Sybil chuckled along with him, enjoying the soft rumble from his chest next to her ear.

She tipped her face up and Tom looked lovingly down. She was still a little drowsy but her eyes shone brightly. "I think they might miss you," he said, realising too late that his off-handed comment had hit a little too close to home. Sybil's face fell sadly. He swore inwardly and lifted her chin. "Besides, the tenants might take issue with us camping out in their parlour."

Sybil smiled appreciably. She knew he was trying to cheer her. "I suppose we should get back," she conceded. "I promised to relieve the nurse covering my shift before dinner."

Tom nodded and reluctantly extracted himself from Sybil's arms. He stood before the sofa and offered her both hands.

After a second's hesitation, Sybil sighed and accepted.

He pulled her to her feet with ease, keeping hold of her small hands, loath to let go just yet.

Neither made a move to part and a beat of communion passed between them. The moment stretched and their fingers twined together of their own accord. The room shrank to just the two of them, their waiting duties all but forgotten.

Tom shook himself inwardly. "Sybil," he breathed. "We really should go," he said gravelly, watching her watch his mouth as he spoke. "Or I might be tempted to stay after all."

Sybil blanched a little, a shy smile lifting her lips. She stayed silent but she was tempted too. It killed her to leave him at the door each day. She heaved a sigh and nodded, stretching up on her toes to peck a kiss to his cheek. "Soon," she whispered daringly, mimicking the last time they'd left the farm. She drew back and gave him a coy smile knowing he would remember. '_Soon'_ had become their code word, a promise, a comforting allusion to the day their future together could begin.

Tom smiled easily. He couldn't wait either. He considered himself a patient man but every day he found being apart from her harder to bear. Even though it has been his own now questionable idea to wait a little longer and firm their plans first, he wondered how much more strain his already dicky heart could quite literally take. He felt her give his hands a light tug and watched Sybil sashay to the parlour door, finally managing to make his legs move after her.

They found the wicker lunch basket open on the kitchen table where they'd left it along with a few used plates and cups waiting in the basin. Sybil ran the tap and set to work rinsing the dishes.

Tom watched with open amusement. Seeing Sybil in the kitchen was still an odd sight, _but one I could get used to_, he mused.

Sybil half-turned and threw a cloth at him. "You can dry," she said challengingly.

Tom took the bait. "Certainly m'lady," he replied with mock-subservience, leaning casually against the kitchen cupboard, holding out a hand expectantly for the first dish.

Sybil slanted him an impish look as she passed over the first dripping saucer. It was silly but she actually felt quite nervous with him watching. She was still an amateur in the kitchen and Tom was probably a far better house-keeper than she. "Tom?" she began timidly. "You do realise I'm no Mrs Patmore?"

Tom smirked. "I'd noticed that yeah."

"What I mean is, I've only had a few cooking lessons. You may have to put up with a few burnt dinners for a while." She gave him a quick gauging glance. "Only at the beginning," she promised.

Was she joking? She really had no idea did she? He would eat coal every night if he had to so long as it meant he could spend every night with her. Of course he might have to, he realised, but that was beside the point. He couldn't help chuckling and then instantly regretted it when he saw her take offence. "Sybil," he begged placing one hand in the sink to still hers. "I'm not exactly used to eating gourmet food," he said. Sybil's nose wrinkled. Perhaps that wasn't very encouraging either. He changed tack. "I'll help."

Sybil looked at him hopefully. "You don't mind?"

Tom tilted his head sympathetically. The fact that she had even given thought to running their house, to their future, thrilled him. "Of course not," he answered confidently, squeezing her damp hand. "My mother will too."

Sybil thought on that with trepidation. She doubted her prospective mother-in-law would be overly impressed with her domestic skills.

Tom took his hand from the water pulling out another dish with it. "I've written to her," he said out-of-the-blue, meeting Sybil's stunned gaze. "My mother," he clarified. "I told her all about you."

Sybil was dumbfounded and more than a little worried. "Did you tell her that I'm-"

"-a beautiful, kind, nurse with a passion for women's rights," he finished for her.

That wasn't what she meant and he knew it. "The daughter of an English Earl?" she added.

Tom stared at her unwaveringly. "I did," he answered flatly.

"How do you think she'll take it?" Sybil asked apprehensively, handing him a watery cup.

Tom shook his head. "To be honest, I'm not sure."

Sybil looked crestfallen down at the sink. "I see." She sounded like her father. Whenever he wanted to keep his feelings on a subject close to his chest, he would always answer with a diplomatic '_I see'_. It drove her mad.

"I also told her that once she met you, she would love you as much as I do."

Sybil looked up to find two deep-blue emotion-filled eyes gazing earnestly back. She smiled gratefully. "I'm glad you told her," she voiced. At least Tom had taken that leap. She wished telling her family would be as simple as writing a letter.

Tom smiled warmly at her. He couldn't wait to introduce Sybil to his family and prayed they would welcome her with open arms. He feared she might soon be in need of a surrogate family once they came clean to Lord Grantham.

He carried the crockery to the table and placed them back inside the hamper. "Mrs Patmore would have a fit if she knew it was me eating these lunches." He fastened the leather straps and sensed Sybil's approach behind him.

Lifting his jacket from the back of a wooden chair, Sybil intuitively helped him into the sleeves. Tom turned and she began buttoning his lapel, wearing a charmingly demure smile. "I won't tell if you don't," she teased, plucking at a piece of lint and smoothing the fabric when she'd finished.

Tom watched every move with rapt attention, beguiled by the whole wifely performance. '_Soon'_ could not come soon enough, he thought to himself, stroking his thumb across her cheek.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Please say you will?" Edith pleaded chasing Sybil down a row of army-issue cots. "Mary's going to sing one," she harped, trying to bait her sister into appearing in the concert by appealing to her sense of sibling rivalry. It always worked when they were girls. On second thought, perhaps laying that particular gauntlet wasn't the most effective carrot to dangle, she concluded. Mary was the competitive one. Sybil was always happy doing her own thing.

"Edith, you know I can't carry a note," Sybil countered, making her way into the hall carrying a pile of folded linens.

Edith dashed around her blocking her escape. "It doesn't have to be singing. You could ..." Edith thought hard to remember exactly what theatrical talent her younger sister actually possessed.

"Precisely," Sybil riposted, brushing passed Edith to continue with her shift.

Edith caught up again. "What about a reading," she suggested flapping her arms. "Poetry or Shakespeare?"

Sybil paused and let out an exaggerated sigh. "I would love to help," she said honestly, "but I'll be on duty anyway." She felt bad for Edith. She worked so hard to keep the men entertained and was obviously disappointed. Juggling the linens, Sybil squeezed her sister's arm. "I'm sure you and Mary will do wonderfully by yourselves."

Edith smiled weakly. "It would have been much better with all three of us," she pouted.

Sybil's genuine surprise by Edith's sudden solidarity was overshadowed when she spied a familiar green jacket entering the hall. Listening half-heartedly to her sister, Sybil was startled to see Tom being led by Carson to the library, where she knew her father was working.

As soon as he entered the hall, Tom's eyes instantly landed on Sybil. On the rare occasions he was granted entrance to the house, he was always on alert for her, hoping he might catch a glimpse and more importantly that she might notice him. Today he was rewarded. Their eyes connected across the room and lingered longingly for the time it took Tom to reach the library door.

It wasn't long enough, not for Sybil, and when Carson closed the door behind Tom her curiosity and anxiety got the best of her. _Why had he been summoned to see Papa?_ Was s_omething wrong?_ She was a bundle of nerves. She had to find out.

Oblivious to the tumult of emotion Sybil was going through, Edith rambled on. "The men have been so looking forward to the concert. It's really going to lift their spirits I think. Why just the other day, Colonel Foster said the sweetest- "

"-hold these for me will you?" Sybil shoved the pile of sheets into Edith's arms making her stagger backward a step.

Edith composed herself after being cut short so abruptly and watched Sybil march off without a backward glance. "-thing," she finished dejectedly.

Sybil made her way to the library with as much calmness and composure as she could muster. She stopped outside the door and leaned in as inconspicuously as any eavesdropper can. She couldn't hear shouting on the other side so that was a good sign but neither could she make out a word the muffled voices were saying. She was imagining all sorts; Tom being dismissed, Tom asking for her hand, Tom being strangled, and not necessarily in that order. She actually considered holding a glass to the door but there were too many people milling about.

Chewing her thumbnail, Sybil paced back and forth before the door like a caged animal. Nothing could be worse than not knowing. She knocked and entered. "Papa," she called casually trying to sound like her old self. To her own ears she sounded anxious and shrill.

Her father and Tom looked up in unison. The knot in her belly unwound, mostly. Tom was alive at least and her father, though surprised by her intrusion, appeared happy enough.

Sybil and Tom shared a secret look, one that seemed to ask the other _'What are you doing here?'_

"Yes?" Robert pressed after an extended silence from his daughter.

Sybil suddenly realised she needed a reason to be there, a good one. "Uh," she pointed back to the door. "Edith is recruiting for the concert," she declared, glancing furtively again at Tom. "I'll be working but I thought perhaps you could volunteer ..."

Robert almost snorted and shook his head. "I think not," he answered with certainty.

"It would mean a lot to Edith, and the men too," she said, taking a step further into the room. "And I know you have a good voice," she cajoled.

"I wouldn't go that far," Robert remarked absently, shuffling some papers.

Sybil loitered and contemplated perusing the shelves for a book hoping she might blend into the background. "Is that all?" Robert asked, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. "I have a list of errands to run through with Branson before my man gets here with the ledgers."

'_Errands', of course. "_Yes, that's all," she replied, relieved to have her answer.

She wanted to tell her father about Tom more than anything, but when the time was right. They wanted to be prepared for the onslaught and show her father they weren't acting impulsively. Once their plans were set then they would tell him, together. Sybil had secretly been glad of the reprieve. She needed time to build up her courage.

With her father's head buried in his desk, Sybil flashed Tom a tender smile as she backed towards the door.

"Oh Sybil," Robert called, looking up. "Why don't you invite your chap to the concert? It is for the officers after all."

Sybil's stomach plummeted. Tom threw her a surreptitious look of concern.

She swallowed, feeling ill at the thought of further propagating the lie but what choice did she have. "Papa-"

"We can send the car for him if that's what's worrying you. You said yourself he's on the road to recovery."

Sybil felt the colour drain from her face. She looked to Tom whose complexion had turned just as pallid. "He won't be well enough to travel just yet," she mumbled.

The sympathy in her father's expression only made her feel worse. "What a pity," he said earnestly. "I was looking forward to meeting the gentleman you've become so fond of."

Sybil cringed inwardly at the assumption 'he' was a 'gentleman' and knew Tom would be feeling the blow just as keenly.

Retreating to the door, Sybil reached for the handle, her head swimming with shame.

"Perhaps I know his family," Robert proffered. "What's his name?" he asked casually.

Tom's head spun in Sybil's direction. She hid it well but her eyes betrayed her dismay. He wished he could do something to help. It was torture to keep up the pretence of formality and cold detachment when the opposite was true.

"I don't think you're acquainted with his family," Sybil replied, skirting the question.

"I might," Robert countered, getting an inkling of her caginess. "I could tell you if I knew his name."

Sybil tried despairingly to keep her tell-tale gaze away from Tom. Telling her father now, like this, would only ruin everything. He would never forgive them. She did her best to hide her panic but the silence stretched and her father was not relenting.

"Sybil," Robert intoned with a hint of suspicion. "His name?" he asked squarely. It wasn't a command but he was definitely pulling rank.

Trapped in her father's unflinching sights, Sybil's palms started sweating. She had no recourse and no excuse left. A feeling of dread overcame her. If she exposed the lie she would be exposing Tom as well.

Tom was forced to watch Sybil's ordeal in stunned silence. As a servant he was not permitted to speak out of turn much less intercede in the personal affairs of his employers. Lord Grantham would be well within his rights to sack him on the spot if he came to Sybil's rescue. He could only imagine his Lordship's reaction if that rescue included the truth. It would be worth it, he decided, seeing Sybil squirm helplessly.

Wringing her hands, Sybil was on the brink of tears when she heard Tom heave a breath to speak and saw him take a horrifyingly heroic step towards her father out of the corner of her eye. "Dimmesdale!" she blurted out.

Her father's brow knitted together ruminating on the name. "Who?"

_A bloody good question_, Tom thought, doing his best not to outwardly react.

Sybil looked from her father to Tom and back again. "Dimmesdale," she repeated, resignedly committing to the lie. "Arthur Dimmesdale."

"I don't recall the name in Burke's Peerage," Robert remarked.

He wasn't likely to either.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Tom folded his rumpled copy of The Yorkshire Observer and tossed the paper irritably down onto the seat beside him. News of the Irish anti-conscription strikes left him feeling useless and depressed darkening his already sullen mood. He was still reeling from his earlier reality-check in the library with Lord Grantham and had spent the better part of the day overanalysing the confrontation. He should be pleased, he supposed, that they hadn't been discovered but instead he felt disheartened and miserable.

He rubbed his tired eyes and sighed, surveying the village scene from his driver's seat. Parked alongside the Church, Tom watched the lane expectantly and checked his watch for the tenth time that half hour. The streets were quiet save for a few stragglers making their way home for supper but he found himself distracted, his attention drawn to a couple seated closely together on the bench adjacent the common, who seemed content to dally despite the bite to the early evening air.

The man's arm was draped brazenly across the back of the bench around his female companion, her head resting intimately on his shoulder. Tom couldn't help feeling a pang of jealousy. What he wouldn't give simply to sit beside Sybil in public and show the world she was his. It must be nice to take such things for granted, he mused, not to care who might see. The anonymous couple were clearly more concerned with each other than offending the sensibilities of any passers-by that Tom couldn't help but root for them. He let a forlorn smile pass his lips and tortured himself once more with thoughts of Sybil.

All too soon the late bus appeared at the far end of the lane and pulled alongside the green. While a few passengers disembarked, the couple stood and hugged fervently. It was only then that Tom made out the man's khaki coloured uniform and army-issue pack as he slung it over one shoulder and boarded the bus, leaving his lover weeping into her handkerchief. Realising their unreserved hug had been a farewell embrace, Tom's smile fell. The odds of the soldier returning were slim at best but he silently wished the stranger luck anyway, for all the good it would do him.

Tom spotted the man he'd been waiting for in amongst the dispersing passengers, his trademark cane in one hand and a worn brown leather suitcase by his feet. Tom climbed from the car and strode across the green. "Mr Bates," he called, waving to catch his attention.

John Bates turned in surprise. "Mr Branson?" he greeted, shaking Tom's extended hand. "What brings you here?"

Tom smiled affably. "You do," he replied. "Lord Grantham sent the car for you. He thought you would be tired after your journey back from Kirbymoorside."

"Oh, well that's very good of his Lordship but he needn't have gone to the trouble," Bates said humbly. "It really isn't far to walk."

"Even so, I've been given strict instructions not to take no for an answer," Tom countered, retrieving Bates' tattered suitcase. "I'm to tell you that his Lordship '_desires the services of his old valet post-haste'_," he said, quoting his insistent employer.

Bates smiled at the hidden compliment. It felt good to be reconciled with his old friend. "In that case, how can I refuse?" he said, accepting defeat with good humour as he hobbled alongside Tom to the car.

Tom stowed the suitcase and moved to open the passenger door finding Bates already seated upfront in the cab.

"You don't mind if I ride with you, do you?" Bates asked. "I prefer the company."

"Not at all," Tom replied, taking his seat behind the wheel. He pumped the clutch, put the car in gear and rolled out onto the lane passing the same tearful woman in the street as she headed in the direction of the Church. No doubt to pray for her ill-fated sweetheart, he intuited.

"Someone you know?" Bates asked, noticing Tom's interest.

Bates drew his focus. Tom shook his head and left it at that. He hadn't the will to relay the sad story of the doomed lovers saying their goodbyes at the bus-stop, or to reveal why his empathy ran so deep. He diverted the subject. "So, does this mean you're back for good?"

Bates looked pensive. "I'd like to think so," he answered vaguely. "We'll see."

"Well, I'm glad," Tom said. "Downton hasn't been the same without you."

Bates gave him a half-smile. "That's kind of you to say Mr Branson, thank you, but I'm not sure everyone will feel the same."

"Well I know Anna missed you."

This caught Bates off-guard. He hadn't realised his relationship with Anna was as yet common knowledge, particularly in light of his impending divorce.

Tom registered the awkward silence. "Sorry, I've overstepped."

Bates softened. "No, it's quite alright. I've missed Anna too," he confessed, feeling a weight lift to say it out loud. "I don't mind admitting it's been hell these past weeks without her." For some reason he felt he could confide in Branson. He was a good man, if a little radical in his political bent, but more than that he liked him.

As the car turned onto the estate and chirred along the drive, both men stared fixedly at the great house contemplating their futures at Downton. Drawing the car to a stop outside the grand entrance, Tom turned in his seat. "Mr Bates, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?" Tom figured now might be his last opportunity to speak to the valet in private.

"Depends how personal," said Bates hesitantly.

"What changed your mind, about returning to Downton I mean?" Tom reckoned he knew the answer already but part of him hoped to glean some guidance or, at the very least, comfort from someone whose love life appeared to be just as complicated as his own.

The question certainly was personal but Bates saw no reason to lie. "Anna," he answered unequivocally. "There were other reasons of course," he added truthfully. "But I came back for her. Lord knows I tried to keep my distance and avoid putting her through anymore grief but, quite frankly, it was a sorry existence without her."

Tom pondered this. The thought of living a half life without Sybil seemed unbearable and made his heart ache at the prospect.

"And Anna can be a persistent woman when she wants to be," Bates added, smiling proudly to himself. "If she hadn't stubbornly refused to give up on me, I might not be here now."

Tom smiled tightly, trying to be happy for them despite his own woes. "But what if someone were to make things difficult for you? What if...circumstances kept you from being together? What would you do then?"

Bates studied Branson curiously, sensing the chauffeur's question was not as hypothetical as it seemed. He thought for a moment, searching for some sage piece of advice that he might give his own son, had he ever had any children. "Whatever it takes."

* * *

><p>The instant Sybil opened the garage door she could sense Tom's remoteness. He stood not three feet away but seemed distant and kept his arms folded defensively across his chest as he leant back on the workbench in that distinctly casual boyish way of his.<p>

All day she had waited for her chance to escape, to steal what little time with Tom she could. All she wanted was for him to take her in his arms and kiss her but Tom didn't make a move towards her. Sybil didn't know what to do with herself. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting after this morning's close-call in the library; anger perhaps, but not this. She felt at sea, unsure whether to go to him and hovered hesitantly in the doorway, the starry night sky at her back.

Sybil plastered on a cheerful smile though she felt anything but. "So Bates is back," she said, making small talk. "Papa must be pleased."

Tom smiled wanly. "And Mr Carson won't be sorry."

Sybil couldn't stand seeing Tom so burdened, so unlike his usual plucky self. She missed the confident sparkle in his eyes and felt wretched to think she was the cause. She could kick herself for lying to her father, but if she hadn't then where would they be."Tom," she said resolutely, dropping the cheery facade. "About this morning-"

Tom held up a hand to silence Sybil's explanation. "Before you go on," he interjected, pulling a folded letter from his pocket and twisting it around in his hands. "I've got some news..."

Sybil's thoughts whirled as she stared warily at the creased white envelope. She was almost afraid to ask. "What does it say?"

Tom looked up into Sybil's worried gaze and took a deep breath. "It's from a friend back home," he began. "He works for a paper in Dublin. They're looking for new blood and he recommended _me_. He says there's a job waiting for me if I want it."

Sybil was stunned. She had no idea Tom aspired to journalism though it was actually rather perfect for him when she thought about it.

"So there's nothing stopping us now," he added soberly, watching her intently. "Is there?"

The suggestion behind those two simple words was clear-cut. Suddenly it all made sense. "Is that what you thought," she asked accusingly. "That because I didn't tell Papa about us, I was having second thoughts?"

"Are you?" Tom asked as evenly as he could manage.

"Of course not," Sybil refuted, half angry half hurt. "Tom," she implored, finally crossing the void between them.

"I'd understand if you were having doubts," he broke in as Sybil halted before him. "Because once we do this, there's no going back," he cautioned. "I need you to be sure."

"But I am sure," Sybil insisted without hesitation, cupping Tom's face in her hands to press her point. "I was just afraid that Papa would send you away."

Awash with relief, Tom caught one of Sybil's hands and turned his face into it, kissing her palm. "Trust me," he said softly, recalling how empty Bates had described life without Anna. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

Sybil rested her forehead against Tom's and closed her eyes. "Promise?" she sighed.

"Promise," Tom echoed. Lord Grantham could say what he liked, threaten all he wanted, he could ban him from the grounds, the county even. Next time it wouldn't make a difference. Remembering the stand-off in the library, Tom drew back. "There's just one thing I have to know..."

Sybil braced herself, prepared to convince Tom that she had no desire to back out, ready to allay any lingering doubts he might still have. Her spirit renewed, she was confident there was not a question he could ask that she couldn't answer with assurance.

"Who's Arthur Dimmesdale?"

Sybil blinked. _Except that._ "Oh no-one, he's ... it's silly really," she sputtered gauchely, embarrassed to remember the fanciful name she had given her father in place of Tom's.

"It was all I could think of at the time," Sybil explained to his questing expression. She was afraid that name would come back to haunt her. Staring back into Tom's glittering blue eyes, Sybil huffed in submission. She never could lie to Tom even when those glorious eyes weren't trained on her. She might as well tell him_. _"He's the hero from a gothic novel Granny Levinson sent me for Christmas - The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne."

An inane grin lit Tom's face.

Sybil batted his chest. "I told you it was silly."

Tom took Sybil by the arms and rubbed her shoulders. "It's not that," he said, a touch of amusement in his eyes. "It's just, for a moment there I thought I might have some competition."

Sybil ignored his light-hearted attempt to let her off the hook. "It was the only book I knew Papa hadn't read. It's far too American for his taste - It's about a young Puritan woman who's ostracised from society for having a sinful love affair with an eloquent preacher."

The similarities were plain. "How does it end?"

Sybil hesitated. "Not happily," she answered solemnly. "But she endures a lot to protect him and their secret."

Tom's gaze locked meaningfully with Sybil's, unsure if they were still discussing the novel. "Sounds like one I should read."

Sybil smiled ruefully and turned slowly, dejectedly away from Tom's grasp. "I'm sorry I lied to Papa," she said haltingly, picking at the splintered edge of the workbench. "I didn't mean for it to get so out of hand. I've just made everything worse."

Tom closed the gap between them in two short strides and wrapped his arms around Sybil, hugging her from behind. "No you haven't," he uttered intimately beside her ear. "It was always going to be messy; we knew that going into this." Tom sighed against Sybil's soft scented hair. "And let's face it your father was never going to give me a glowing reference."

Sybil gave Tom's forearm a compassionate squeeze and leaned back into his warm embrace. "What are we going to do?"

Tom clasped her to him more tightly. "Whatever it takes."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The audience applauded politely as Major Bryant's amateur magic act came to its lacklustre climax, freeing the stage of the makeshift auditorium for the next brave performer.

Sybil joined in, clapping along with the assembly of household staff and nurses stood waiting at the back of the library. Glancing about her, she couldn't help feeling at ease there. No airs and graces, no paying calls or pointless posturing. She felt freer and happier among the ranks of the working than she ever did in her old life. And soon she would confess as much to her family. While the task seemed no less daunting, Sybil welcomed it all the same. She loathed hiding and grew impatient for her new life with Tom.

They had settled on announcing the news after the concert. Sybil hadn't wanted to steal Edith's thunder, the concert meant so much to her, to everyone, they didn't want to ruin it, so they agreed to wait until the following evening. Tom would join them after dinner and together they would face her family. Despite Tom's reassurances, Sybil still dreaded her father's reaction but, one way or another, she would have her deliverance. All she had to do now was try to quell her nervous energy enough to enjoy this evening's concert. If tonight was to be the last time her family would all share in a happy occasion together, then she was determined to commit every rose-tinted detail to memory.

Seeing Edith twist in her seat at the piano to give Mary her cue, Sybil smiled. The alliance between her elder sisters had been hard-won and she had to wonder how long their tentative truce would last. Their petty squabbles seemed like fond memories now and, strange as it may be, she would actually miss playing referee.

Mary rose from her chair to a rousing applause and marched confidently down the centre aisle, addressing the room as she went. "Most of you won't know how rare it is to see my sister, Edith and I, pulling together in a double act but in wartime we, like all of you, have more important things to worry about..."

Sybil winced on Mary's behalf, knowing the news of Matthew's disappearance while on patrol would be weighing heavily on her sister's mind - not that she would ever allow it to show. In typical Mary-fashion, she would rather let the world think her heartless than weak. And tonight she wore her mask of aloofness with aplomb.

But how could she judge her sister so when she felt like such a fraud herself. Mary wasn't the only one wearing a mask this evening. Sybil's eyes flicked self-consciously to her parents seated across the room, blissfully unaware of her true feelings. Mary might be secretly still in love with Matthew but in terms of secrets, Sybil could trump that.

"...Ladies and gentlemen, I give you - the Crawley Sisters." Mary concluded her introduction and began to sing: "_Sometimes when I feel bad and things look blue_..."

Watching Mary perform, Sybil felt more than a little guilty. It wasn't bad enough that she was keeping her family in the dark about Tom, but when she'd heard of Matthew's being missing in action her overwhelming emotion had been relief. She was worried for her cousin of course, but inwardly Sybil was just incredibly relieved that it wasn't Tom, that he would never have to fight over there. She would never know that pain. How selfish she must be in the face of Mary's misery to be so utterly grateful that Tom was safe and sound.

As Mary sang out each bar, the audience was captivated. Very few people, besides the family, knew how Mary's otherwise acid tongue could produce such melodious music: "_Someone within my heart to build a throne, someone who'd never part to call my own..."_

It was all Sybil could do not to turn around and find the face she knew was waiting behind her. If his proximity had made it difficult to focus on the concert before, now it was near impossible. Perhaps it was the words of the song, or maybe appreciating how lucky they were in light of Matthew, but Sybil so desperately wanted to step back into the comfort of Tom's arms. Without even turning she knew Tom sensed it too. But she dared not turn, not even to share a furtive glance. The library was full to the brim with officers and servants, not to mention her family.

The entire room piped up, joining in the chorus: "_If you were the only girl in the world and I were the only boy..._" Sybil sang softly along with them, but the verse seemed only to amplify her yearning until she could stand the tightly wound knot in her belly no longer. Casually crossing her hands at the small of her back, Sybil opened her left palm, hoping Tom would recognise the invitation and dare to respond to it.

For an eternal moment Sybil waited with bated breath, feeling nothing but the humid air buzzing between them. Then, finally, the touch of warm skin as Tom's fingers moved slowly, provocatively over hers, linking them firmly, clandestinely together.

A wave of pleasured awareness swept through her, though Sybil couldn't tell whether the warm feeling flowered from their joined hands or her heart. Casting a shy smile to the floor, catching a flash of his deep green jacket, Sybil didn't need to see the vivid blue of Tom's eyes to know the heat of his gaze was upon her, burning her cheek.

She slew a quick look at her parents and grandmother, singing sportingly to the song, but wasn't at all sure she could force herself to let go of Tom whether they looked her way or not. She hadn't expected to need him this much. In a packed room, in the midst of a concert and a family crisis, having him close was suddenly crucial.

Sybil was acutely aware of wanting Tom closer still when the choir of voices tailed off. She looked up and discovered why. Out of no-where, completely unharmed and unaffected, strode cousin Matthew bold as day, shortly followed by former footman William. Questions of how and why circled Sybil's mind as her wide eyes flew to Mary. As long as she lived she would never forget Mary's face - a mix of shock, pure relief and joy.

A lump of emotion formed in Sybil's throat and she elatedly squeezed Tom's hand. Her family was whole again and everyone she loved most was together in the same room sharing in the happy reunion. Tom responded, smoothing his thumb across her skin, offering his support, albeit in secret.

Her father almost leapt from his seat. "My dear boy," he said, taking Matthew firmly by the hand. "My very dear boy."

He smiled so warmly at Matthew that Sybil's jubilation momentarily faltered as she realised her father would never look upon Tom so fondly, nor likely shake his hand. Her smile turned watery. That her dear papa would withhold his blessing on principle wounded her more than she cared to admit.

As Matthew joined Mary by the piano finishing the song in a duet, Sybil thought she discerned a flicker of hurt cross her sister's features. Mary concealed it at once behind a brave smile, of course, but the angst appeared again as she gazed forlornly at Matthew. Sybil quickly realised that Mary's joy had been short-lived as well. Matthew had blessedly returned safely home, but not to Mary. He was not a free man and Mary's mask did little to veil her regret.

As the room erupted into applause, Sybil slanted her heartbroken sister a sympathetic look. Stuck in the limelight, Mary looked so lost and vulnerable, wearing a transparently polished smile. _Poor Mary, if only she had accepted Matthew when she had the chance_. But Mary was too practical for her own good, always had been. _Would she trade it all _in, Sybil wondered, _the inheritance, the title? Would she give it all up for a second chance with Matthew if he were penniless? _Squeezing Tom's hand tighter, Sybil knew unequivocally what her own answer would be.

* * *

><p>Hurrying through the night, the tie of her apron and headscarf whipping in the wind, Sybil's insides churned. In less than twenty four hours her whole world would change forever, and she couldn't wait. Sweeping towards the garage, she felt giddy and restless and knew of only one remedy to ease the tautness in her belly.<p>

Tending to the patients after the concert did little to occupy her wandering mind. The recollection of Tom's strong hand illicitly entwined with her own distracted her no end from her duties. She found herself smiling involuntarily at the thought, insatiably anticipating the next touch, the next kiss. She couldn't help it.

Rounding the shadow of the wattle-fenced yard, Sybil spied the familiar glow beneath the garage doors. She gravitated towards it like a moth to a flame, eager to see Tom's warm, welcoming smile. Crossing the yard, Sybil stopped short of the garage, charily looking about, but saw nothing except darkness beyond the fence rattling in the whistling wind.

Tom recognised the approaching footsteps and smiled to himself, readily abandoning his work and the cluttered counter. He reached the bonnet of the Renault and halted, enthralled by the sight of Sybil sidestepping into the garage and securing the latch. His dark eyes roved as he watched, unnoticed, for a moment. She still wore her nurse's uniform and that annoying headdress that hid her luscious dark waves, but her cheeks were bright and rosy from the cool autumn breeze. He couldn't believe this beautiful, wild creature was his.

Sybil turned, caught those smoky blue eyes and stilled. The way he looked at her made her heart race and her lungs strive for air. Suddenly nothing else existed, the rest of the world faded inconsequentially away. All that registered was Tom's intense gaze and her own burning need. They shared a look that spoke volumes. Then, without a sound, Sybil launched herself from the spot she'd been rooted to in the same instant that Tom advanced upon her.

Arms outstretched, they crashed together in an urgent embrace; Tom's arm anchoring her waist tightly to him while his other hand cradled her cheek, drawing her lips to his. His mouth moved over hers and Sybil melted, pressing closer, gripping Tom's upper-arm and sinking her fingers into the muscle through his shirt.

"I know I shouldn't have come," Sybil murmured against his lips as they draw apart for breath. "But ..."

Tom lightly shook his head forestalling her apology. "It's okay." How could he forgive something he had hoped for? At this moment, he couldn't bring himself to mind that they had agreed not to meet again until the announcement. He'd been on the verge of caving-in himself. Somehow he would've found a way to see her. He brushed his thumb gently across her lips meaning to silence her; instead it became an act of adulation.

Sybil's breath caught in her throat. She could not have imagined it possible to feel more desired, more loved, than she did already - until now. Slowly, shyly, she pressed a kiss to his thumb.

The dam broke and Tom crushed a desperate kiss to her lips. Sybil closed her eyes and kissed him back with everything she had, sinking blissfully further into him. The kiss turned hungry and her stomach swelled tighter. Her legs backed into the wheel-arch of the motor and she heard herself whimper encouragingly. She twined a hand around the nape of Tom's neck and held fast.

Abruptly, Tom drew back from the kiss and braced his head against Sybil's, breathing hard. Her lids fluttered open but Tom's remained tightly shut, his jaw clenched with the effort of restraint. When his hesitant eyes finally met hers, Sybil understood without words what he was about. She loved that even in the throes of passion he was trying to be honourable, but she wasn't going to let him play the martyr. She wasn't Mary; she would not waver and regret it later. She wanted Tom more than anything. Leaning in, she pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of his mouth and gloried in the tickle of his warm breath against her skin.

Tom swiftly searched her face. She looked serene and sultry and determined as ever. He should have known he was helpless to follow wherever she led. Her lips curved into a reassuring smile and her pining gaze dropped to his mouth. Tom's chest swelled in awe and his control dissolved. He dipped his head and brushed a light, heartfelt kiss over her full lips. Drawing a ragged breath, he kissed her again, deeper this time, possessively.

Sybil clung to Tom's shoulders as she sank, exhilarated, into the kiss. Every sense she had came alive, aware of the slightest shift in their tangle. She felt a small tug as the scarf slipped from her head and sighed contentedly as Tom buried his fingers in her hair. Suddenly something was wrong. Her alert senses detected a presence. She broke the kiss and looked up.

"Don't mind me milady," Thomas drawled smugly from the open doorway.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author Note:** Really sorry this took so long. After the events of season 3 I wasn't sure I would continue. Thank you for your patience and encouragement anyway, particularly Sayuri-Kikio.

** Chapter 10**

Sybil gaped back at Thomas in shock, alarm clutching her stomach.

"Well, this _is _a turn-up for the books," Thomas crowed as he stalked into the garage.

Tom felt Sybil tense in his arms and bristled, eyeing the Corporal warily. Instinctively he eased Sybil half-behind him, shielding her as Thomas advanced. Something in his smug tone and casual manner set Tom on edge. He would milk this for all it was worth, Tom felt sure of it.

Pleased to have them on the back-foot, Thomas unhurriedly plucked a cigarette from his breast pocket. "Oh don't worry milady," he scoffed, planting the butt between his lips and fixing Sybil with a triumphant leer. "You aren't the first Crawley caught between the sheets with-"

Tom lunged before he could finish his sentence, hauling Thomas against the car with fistfuls of his lapel and a warning growl. He saw red; he couldn't stop himself. The slur aimed at Sybil was not something he would stand for, and she knew nothing of the rumours concerning The Turk. He'd wanted to spare her that much.

Sybil's hands flew to her mouth. "Tom!" she cried. "Don't."

Pinned to the motor, the wind knocked out of him along with his cigarette, Thomas coughed out a snigger bolstered to know he'd touched a nerve. Righting himself, he stared Branson down, his expression undaunted. "Best do as the _lady_ says," he taunted.

Sybil placed a pacifying hand on Tom's arm. "Tom," she cautioned.

Tom took one look at Sybil's face and came to his senses. No good would come of threatening Thomas. The man was a snake; it would only serve to provoke him. He glanced back at his whitened knuckles and heaved a defeated sigh. Grudgingly Tom released his collar and backed a safe distance taking Sybil with him. Still the sick feeling inside refused to abate. "What do you want?" he demanded.

Thomas straightened his coat and raked a hand through his mussed black hair. "I'm not sure what you mean, Mr Branson," he replied, perching insolently against the motor he'd been slammed into moments before.

Tom almost laughed. "Come off it. You never did anything unless there was somethin' in it for you."

Thomas's bandaged hand seemed to twitch of its own accord. "You forget yourself, Mr Branson. I'm not the one havin' it away with his Lordship's daughter while others risk life and limb for King and Country."

Sybil saw Tom's jaw clench and caught his arm before he could leap again.

Tom relented and bit his tongue but glared daggers at Thomas. "It isn't like that," he protested.

"Oh no?" Thomas's speculative gaze shifted from them to the floor.

Sybil tracked his gaze and flushed as she watched him crouch and retrieve her discarded headscarf, recalling the tantalising feel of Tom's fingers brushing the skin at the nape of her neck as he tugged the scarf free.

Thomas rose, holding the incriminating scarf aloft. "Could've fooled me," he smirked.

Tom and Sybil traded sheepish glances.

The former footman shook his head and tutted condescendingly. "I must say, I am surprised at you nurse Crawley. Running around with the chauffeur; I wouldn't have thought you had it in you." He sounded impressed. "Much less parade it right under everyone's noses."

Sybil glanced tellingly at Tom, realising Thomas must have seen them together at the concert.

Thomas registered her comprehension with a smile. "You've got bottle, I'll give you that. Have you any idea of the scandal...?"

Sybil's chin lifted defiantly. "I couldn't care less."

"And your family? What would they say if they could see you now, flaunting yourself? They'd be ashamed I'd wager."

Sybil blanched at the mention of her family, turning his words over and over until the sting of guilt made her eyes water.

Seeing him get under her skin made Tom's insides prickle. He balled his fist by his side, itching to smack that smug grin from Thomas's pasty face.

Sensing as much Thomas turned on his heels to leave, white scarf in hand. He had his proof. "The papers would have a field day," he added for good measure.

Sybil stepped forward, astonished that Thomas would betray her family to the gossip columns. "You wouldn't dare tell the papers, would you? What about the hospital, and everything my father has done for you?"

Thomas took umbrage with that and pivoted. He'd be damned if he owed anyone anything, especially not his former employer. Lord Grantham would've readily given him the boot if he hadn't acted first. Years of hard graft for meagre wages and that was his reward. Perhaps if he'd been given a choice back then, he might still have full use of his hand. The way he saw it, he was the one owed some recompense. No, any sense of loyalty he felt for the Crawleys ended when he swapped his livery for his dress uniform. Now it was his turn to look down his nose at his 'betters'.

"Sybil, don't waste your time," Tom told her, claiming her hand. "He couldn't give a monkey's uncle about you or your family. He's only interested in makin' a few bob."

"I'm shocked Mr Branson," said Thomas, feigning indignation. "Believe it or not, I'm not that crass. I've no intention of selling news of your tawdry affair to the papers."

Sybil looked hopefully from Thomas to her sceptical fiancé.

"No, I intend to do the right thing by everyone," Thomas stated proudly, almost believing his own rhetoric, "…and tell his Lordship _exactly_ what's been going on behind his back."

Tom glowered. "I bet you will," he rasped, under no illusions that Thomas would take great pleasure in giving Lord Grantham his own sordid version of events.

Sybil frowned. "But we plan to tell papa ourselves, please Thomas?!"

"Pull the other one," Thomas sneered, not believing a word of it. _Why would they confess? They'd be mad_.

Tom gave Sybil's hand a tug, anxious to keep her within arm's reach. "Sybil, come away. It's falling on deaf ears. The papers will find out soon enough anyhow." His heart broke for her. She'd wanted so badly to part with her father as friends if not with his blessing. It riled him to think of that viper poisoning any chance of a reconciliation between them.

The image of her father's face looped through Sybil's mind. She knew how let down he would be hearing this second-hand. "Please Thomas," she implored. "Please don't say anything to my father."

Thomas faltered for a moment. He knew all too well the disappointment of a parent hurt far more than a beating, having received a generous helping of both. Lady Sybil should consider herself lucky; at least her old man was not the sort to raise a hand to her. Ignoring his better judgement, he approached Sybil, making Tom shift agitatedly. He leaned in, relishing the reversal of power. "It's for the best," he imparted, his words dripping with conceit.

Sybil pressed her lips together, fighting back the tears threatening to spill.

Tom grasped her by the shoulders and drew her close. "You son of a bitch!" he bit out. "When did you become so righteous?"

Thomas retreated to the garage door. "I may be no angel," he riposted. "But I consider it my civic duty to save Lady Sybil from ruin. His Lordship will know how to act."

The insinuation behind his remark made Sybil uneasy.

"I don't buy it," Tom countered, his Irish brogue thick with hatred. "You don't care about Sybil or anyone else for that matter. What's in it for you?"

For a moment Thomas considered lying. "Gratitude, Mr Branson," he answered flatly. "A commodity more valuable than money." A gloating smile curved the corner of his thin lips. "I imagine a favour from his Lordship will come in very handy." With that he stuffed Sybil's scarf in his coat pocket and disappeared back into the night.

* * *

><p>The embers of Thomas's cigarette smouldered in the dark as he strode back to the service entrance, congratulating himself and composing his conversation with Lord Grantham. He would have to be delicate of course. The Earl had a soft spot for his youngest and would not brook any disparagement.<p>

It wouldn't take much to paint Branson as the cad who corrupted his daughter. The impudent chauffeur had clearly crossed the line, no doubt taking advantage of Lady Sybil's fondness for hopeless causes. His Lordship would be furious, Thomas mused delightedly. With any luck and a little prodding, he would be furious enough to put a stop to it and obliged enough to put himself in Thomas's debt.

Still rehearsing, Thomas ducked into the courtyard expecting to find it deserted at this time of night.

"Where've you been then?" asked O'Brien out of nowhere.

Thomas virtually skidded to a halt. "Miss O'Brien, bloody hell. You gave me a start. I thought you were Mrs Hughes."

O'Brien emerged from the shadows with a woollen shawl wrapped round her shoulders and the crisp remains of a fag between her fingers. "Not flamin' likely," she sniffed. "They're all in bed, which is where you ought to be at this hour."

Thomas smiled tightly. "I'm just heading there now," he answered evasively.

"Not till you spill what you've been up to," she pried as Thomas made for the door. "Or would you rather explain it to Mr Carson?"

Thomas halted again, irritated by the threat. "I don't answer to Mr Carson anymore, you know that."

O'Brien turned towards the door, calling his bluff. "You won't mind if I fetch him then, will you?"

Thomas capitulated first, snaring O'Brien's arm. "Alright," he grated out, hastily releasing his grip, "alright." He had to admire her fortitude. "Let's just say that Lady Mary isn't the only Crawley sister with a secret."

O'Brien cocked an eyebrow. "Go on."

Thomas took a breath then promptly clamped his lips shut at the sound of footsteps and muffled voices. The noise drew nearer and O'Brien's eyes widened with surprise as Lady Sybil burst into the yard with Branson in tow.

"Sybil, just wait," Tom beseeched, trying to catch up with her.

"Thomas!?" Sybil summoned, squaring her shoulders.

Tom spotted O'Brien first and rounded Sybil, blocking her path. "Sybil, go back to the house and let me talk to him."

"You know I'm right, he won't listen to you," Sybil dismissed trying to peer over Tom's shoulder.

O'Brien instinctively disposed of her cigarette. "Uh, would someone care to tell me what in the world is going on?"

Thomas wore a faintly amused expression. "Lady Sybil?" he prompted as if daring her to come clean to her mother's lady's maid.

Sybil recoiled as Tom stepped aside revealing a po-faced Miss O'Brien waiting for an explanation. The prospect of telling the odious old maid seemed just as scary as confessing to her parents, but perhaps she held some sway with Thomas. Realising she had little choice, Sybil cleared her throat. "Tom-m and I, we're getting married."

Thomas nearly choked with surprise. He hadn't seriously considered it was anything more than a fling, a dalliance until Lady Sybil settled down with some nobleman's boring son.

"Is this a joke?" asked O'Brien, confounded.

Tom stood his ground. "It's no joke," he rebutted boldly. "We love each other and we're getting married."

Thomas inclined his head to O'Brien. "Told you so," he boasted under his breath, alluding to his big discovery.

O'Brien scrutinized the handholding pair, aghast. "It's not for me to say of course milady but I've never heard anything so absurd." A lady marrying the help, it just wasn't done. "What will your poor mother say? She'll not be happy; I can tell you that much for nothing."

Dispirited, Sybil looked over at Tom to find his deep blue eyes gazing back. "But I love him," she voiced, drawing strength from his unyielding presence. "We don't care about the money or any of that nonsense. We know what we're doing. We're just asking for your discretion until we speak with my parents. Please try to understand. You must have been in love once."

Thomas rolled his eyes and snorted but O'Brien remained quiet, an ache from years past constricting her chest.

Her ominous silence caught his attention. "You don't seriously believe this claptrap?" he pressed, feeling his 'reward' slipping away from him. "Mr Branson here is clearly only after a leg up in the world." Thomas fixed Branson with a suggestive leer as if to imply something sleazy. "Or was it just a leg over?" he goaded.

This time Tom didn't hesitate. His fist connected with Thomas's jaw with a satisfying thwack, and both Sybil and O'Brien gasped and skittered back as Thomas's head jerked sideward.

Tom shook out his hand, flexing his throbbing knuckles, breathing hard. As the fog of anger and adrenaline lifted, he realised there would be hell to pay but, for now, seeing Thomas bought down a peg was well worth it.

Thomas lifted his head and tested his jaw. "Do you see what he's like Miss O'Brien?"

Tom caught the sly glint in the Corporal's eye and his gut twisted. He'd played right into his devious little hands, as if Lord Grantham needed another reason to disapprove of him.

O'Brien cinched Thomas's face between her palms and tilted his head awkwardly to take a look. A nasty reddish bruise was forming across his cheek but, from what she could gather prodding here and there, nothing appeared to be broken. Thomas winced and squirmed. "You'll live," she declared stonily, turning to see Sybil enfolded in Tom's arms, the cracked skin on his knuckles glistening painfully where he cupped her shoulder.

"I think you should go now Mr Branson," O'Brien said firmly.

"Alone," Thomas chimed in, nursing his jaw.

"Yes thank you Mr Barrow," O'Brien intervened. "Wait for me in the kitchen please," she directed before Thomas could object.

Thomas gawped indignantly at O'Brien. He didn't appreciate being ordered about like a child, nor being cut out of the loop after doing all the legwork, but his jaw ached and he wasn't minded to argue. He threw Branson a cutting look and sulked towards the door.

"You should be getting back too milady," said O'Brien. "It's late. I'll be up shortly."

"But..." Sybil's conflicted gaze swung from O'Brien back to Tom, afraid that if she let him go now she might never see him again. Thomas would most certainly expose them at the earliest opportunity and in the worst possible light, and her father would be impossible to talk sense to after that.

A beat of understanding passed between Tom and O'Brien; they both knew Sybil would take her cue from him. "It's alright, go on," Tom urged, forcing a smile. "I'll see you soon," he reassured, finding the way she bit her lower lip endearing even now.

Sybil hesitated, getting the uncomfortable feeling she was being managed.

"There you go milady," O'Brien concurred, attempting to sound cordial. "No sense catching a chill."

Sybil eyed O'Brien dubiously. She didn't trust her or Thomas as far as she could throw them.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Tom watched Sybil slip out of the yard with a heavy heart, his gaze lingering on the empty gateway. God he wished he could follow. He couldn't go on like this; the separation was torture. He just wanted to be with her. He'd dreamt of little else for so long. The image of those striking turquoise pantaloons sprang unbidden into his mind as though he needed reminding of where it all started. Momentarily transported back to that summer, Tom smiled into the dark just as he had through the glass that day, completely in awe of her. Her tenacity and spirit shone as radiantly as her bold new frock, and he'd fallen for her then and there. She looked stunning, so assured, and her prim family so shocked... _her family_. Their inevitable intrusion brought him crashing back to the gloomy present. _Still waiting on the other side of the window_, he lamented, his weary sigh spiralling into the cold night air.

_One more day_, he told himself already feeling antsy. One more day and they'd be free to be together. No more hiding, no more slinking around as though they were doing something shameful. He'd freely admit they should have spoken out long ago but the timing was never right and, truth be told, he didn't regret one minute they'd spent alone these past weeks however 'improper' the naysayers might call it. Frankly he couldn't wait to have her all to himself, selfish as that may be. He _was _selfish when it came to Sybil. He could never have enough of her. He could hardly believe she felt the same. _'But I love him...' _To hear her say those words to Thomas and O'Brien, his heart had quite literally soared.

"Just what do you think you're playin' at?" O'Brien's razor sharp voice cut into Tom's reveries like a knife.

He turned to face the forbidding maid and swallowed. "Look, I'm sorry I hit him but he asked for it."

O'Brien was inclined to agree. She'd had a mind to clout Thomas herself. "I'm not talking about Mr Barrow."

Tom sighed frustratedly. "Sybil and I are getting married; we're not 'playing' at anything, and we've not done anything wrong."

O'Brien let out a humourless laugh. "I doubt very much his Lordship will see it that way," she retorted. "He's as like to call the police."

"What for, falling in love?" Tom asked testily. "It's not a crime."

O'Brien's brow arched at his pert tone. "It might as well be," she countered tartly. "It's ridiculous, you 'n her." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't tell me you actually think it can work?" she scoffed. "You're kidding yourself. Oil and water don't mix, that's just how it is-"

"But times are changing, surely you must see that," Tom urged, feeling his socialist hackles begin to rise.

"I see no such thing," O'Brien snapped, discomfited by the notion. "This isn't a fairytale y'know. What did you expect; to ride off into the sunset and no-one would bat an eye?" She didn't require an answer and didn't wait for one. "If you think his Lordship will stand idly by and let the likes of you waltz off with his daughter, you've got another thing coming."

Tom's mind reeled, darting in a dozen different directions, with the lengths Lord Grantham could possibly go to.

"And what about Lady Sybil?" O'Brien pressed, ignoring Tom's sharp gaze. "Have you considered what's best for her in all this?"

He'd thought of nothing else. And every time he came to the same conclusion; that the best guarantee of Sybil's happiness lay with him – he was certain to his marrow of that – and her happiness was more important than anything else, certainly more important than rank or any of those pompous rules so entrenched in the aristocracy. If they thought that Sybil gave a monkey's about money and high society, they really didn't understand her at all. All the money in the world wouldn't make her happy. "What's best for Sybil or what's best for the Granthams?" he asked with an edge to his voice.

"At least with them she'll have prospects..."

_Prospects? _ A suitably wealthy husband in other words. Just the thought sent a surge of possessiveness streaking through his veins.

"What sort of future can she have with you? Scraping by, working all the hours God sends. It's no life for a lady..."

Tom's face hardened as O'Brien continued her tirade.

"She's meant for better-"

"Better than the likes of me you mean," he said defensively.

O'Brien shrugged. "If the cap fits," she sniffed. "Face it, Lady Sybil no more belongs in your world than you do in hers. They'll hardly want to rub shoulders with a common chauffeur..."

"I'm not a chauffeur anymore," Tom bit back, quite content not to 'rub shoulders' with their lot either.

"You're not a gentleman," O'Brien pointed out, making it sound like an insult. "And you can't give her the life of privilege and security a gentleman can, the life she was born for. Would you really deny her that?" she asked accusingly.

"I'd not deny Sybil anything in my power to give," he replied honestly. O'Brien clearly wasn't impressed. What did she want to hear, that he would renege on their engagement? Not a chance in hell. He couldn't. It was done, the decision was out of his hands and the only person capable of undoing it was as committed as he to seeing this through. He held onto that now.

"Then walk away," O'Brien urged. "If you care for her, as you say, do yourselves a favour and leave her be." With that she swung about and stalked off towards the door.

Tom called after her, not even sure why it should matter what one crabby old maid thought. "I'd do anything for that young woman," he vowed.

O'Brien stopped in her tracks.

"...but I'll not give her up."

Turning on the spot, O'Brien gave Tom a long inscrutable look, long enough to unnerve him.

She had to give him credit; he certainly was determined, and fiercely protective judging by the bruise on Thomas's face. If she wasn't so sure it would all end in tears, she might have been persuaded to his cause, but there was no point fanning the flames. "You may not have a choice."

Tom faltered, rocked by her warning and the prospect of losing Sybil. He tried brushing the grim feeling aside but the threat continued to claw at him. What could they do? Force him? As far as he was concerned it was Sybil's choice, no-one else's, and he believed in her, in them. Filling his lungs with a breath of crisp night air, he willed for tomorrow, certain he was in for a restless night.

O'Brien tilted her head and considered him. He looked upset, vulnerable. He had no-one else to blame but himself of course – getting ideas beyond his station like that – but it was better for all concerned that he accept the inevitable now, she told herself.

* * *

><p>The kitchen was dark save for the dim glow of a single lamp perched on the counter, casting just enough light for Thomas to find his way around the sink. He stood dabbing a damp tea towel to his jaw, muttering a litany of curses to himself.<p>

"What was that all about?" said a stern voice from over his shoulder.

Thomas jumped. "Jesus!" Did she have to sneak about like a ghost? "Would you stop that?! You'll give me a heart attack," he groused.

O'Brien held her tongue. She'd not hold a few frayed nerves against him. Spending time in the trenches was enough to make anyone jittery, she reckoned, remembering poor Mr Lang.

Thomas peeled back the towel. "Look at the state of me," he grumped, sticking his chin in the air.

O'Brien audibly huffed, slung her shawl on the counter and impatiently surveyed the swollen side of his face. "You didn't answer my question," she pressed, taking the towel out of his hand and leaning passed him to run it under the tap.

"I could ask you the same thing," he said in clipped tones. "Undermining me like that; sending me indoors like a naughty schoolboy?" As if she didn't know.

O'Brien wringed out the soaked cloth and folded it. "You should thank me," she replied, catching the furrow in Thomas's brow.

"Thank you?" he repeated incredulously. "For what, making me look like a complete clod?"

O'Brien reached up and twisted his chin to one side. "No, for saving you from another hiding," she corrected, holding the cold compress to his jaw, "...which is where you were heading."

Thomas snorted derisively. He didn't feel very thankful. "I _can_ fight my own battles," he pointed out before recoiling in pain. "Ow! Watch it!" he griped, petulantly snatching back the towel.

"Don't take it out on me," she admonished. "If you're fool enough to wind up Mr Branson, it's your own fault."

"He caught me unawares is all," Thomas amended. O'Brien looked unconvinced. "It won't happen again. Besides as soon as I let it slip to his Lordship what lover-boy's been up to, he'll be out on his ear."

O'Brien glanced pointedly at Thomas. That explained the animosity in the yard. "Lady Sybil won't thank you for interfering," she ventured.

Thomas shrugged. "Maybe not, but his Lordship will," he grinned, realising too late that it hurt too much to smile. "Ow," he grimaced through gritted teeth, clutching the side of his mouth. He cast her a sidelong glance. "You never cared much for Lady Sybil, what's it to you anyway?"

O'Brien was wondering the same thing herself. "It's no skin off my nose," she answered flatly. "But I'll not hear the end of it upstairs. Headstrong is that one, she'll be insufferable."

"She'll get over it," Thomas remarked offhandedly.

O'Brien wasn't convinced of that either. Lady Sybil seemed fairly adamant in the courtyard. And the way she looked at Mr Branson, she'd seen that look before, she'd wore it herself once. Wars were waged over less.

"At worst she'll get a slap on the wrist," Thomas continued.

"Hhm, we'll see," she muttered, deciding to keep out of the whole mess. It wasn't her war after all, and she had no intention of losing her position over two foolhardy lovebirds. Scooping up her shawl, she half-turned on her way to tend to Lady Sybil. "Just do me a favour..." she began. Thomas waited with a questioning expression on his face and the tea towel pressed again to his jaw. "Leave me out of it."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Waiting by her window, Sybil stood biting her thumbnail, staring sightlessly through the curtain, reflecting, unable to stop herself worrying. Playing everything over and over, her head was beginning to hurt but sleep was the furthest thing from her mind right now. She kept thinking about Tom, wondering where he was, what he must be thinking, whether he felt as anxious and alone as she did at this moment.

Closing her eyes on a sigh, Sybil let her mind wander back to the garage, back to the warmth of Tom's arms and the slow, stirring press of his lips, letting her imagination conjure the next step. She wanted more than stolen moments. She wanted the life they'd planned together. She couldn't think much beyond that.

A knocking on her bedroom door drew her attention. The knob turned and Sybil held her breath.

"Milady." O'Brien stepped inside, met her gaze briefly and closed the door behind her.

Sybil exhaled, relieved for once to see the grim-faced maid. She'd half-expected her father to burst through the door in a rage. "Where's Tom?" she demanded.

O'Brien moved quickly to the wardrobe. "In bed I shouldn't wonder milady," she replied evenly. Opening the polished mahogany doors, she started scanning hoping Lady Sybil wouldn't be unduly difficult. If she could just get the wilful young woman into bed then the rest would take care of itself.

Sybil blinked. "But I thought… I take it Thomas hasn't gone to my father?"

O'Brien selected a cotton nightgown and hung it on the inside of the door. "No. Not yet milady."

"Could you talk to him? Change his mind?" Sybil hated having to ask but she was desperate.

"'fraid it wouldn't do any good," O'Brien said in all honesty. "Thomas seldom takes my advice, even when it could save him a world of trouble."

Sybil believed her. The undercurrent of annoyance in her voice was certainly real enough. "This isn't fair," she huffed.

O'Brien circled wearily behind her and began tugging impatiently at the knot in Sybil's apron. "It rarely is milady," she bit out, unable to contain her irritation. "But we can't always have what we want. Marrying for love is a luxury few of us can afford - 'fair' doesn't come into it. It's rotten and cruel but there it is." As the apron ties slid from her grasp, O'Brien looked up to find Lady Sybil eyeing her quizzically.

"Did you ever want to marry, O'Brien?"

The question caught O'Brien off guard. "_I want doesn't get _– my mother used to say."

"But there _was_ someone?" Sybil prompted.

O'Brien's insides clenched. She'd never said a word to anyone. "What makes you say that milady?"

Sybil recalled the wistful shadow flicker across O'Brien's face in the yard as if maybe the veteran maid knew exactly how it felt to be in love, to be torn - exactly how Sybil felt herself. "Just a feeling."

O'Brien wasn't altogether comfortable dredging up the past but Sybil was like a dog with a bone. "Even if there was … someone," she stumbled over the word, "it didn't matter what I wanted. I was sent into service and that was that."

It explained a lot, Sybil thought. "I'm sorry." She knew she needn't apologise, it was all long before her time, but she couldn't help feeling sorry for the older woman who, for the first time in Sybil's life, looked as far from menacing as could be, fragile even.

O'Brien couldn't stand being the subject of pity. "There's really no need milady." She rounded Sybil again removing the apron, only too glad to escape the glare of sympathy from her kind eyes.

"So you have no regrets about going into service?" Sybil found that hard to believe.

"Everyone has regrets milady," O'Brien answered vaguely. "But it was different for me; I didn't have any other choice. I was the eldest of seven; a lot of mouths to feed. I had to help support them." She set to work unfastening the line of ivory buttons down the back of Sybil's dress. "Anyway, I was one of the lucky ones..."

Sybil wasn't so sure 'lucky' was the right word for it.

"...and it all worked out for the best," O'Brien finished.

"How can you say that?" Sybil asked over her shoulder, trying to imagine how O'Brien must have felt being forced to leave her family and her beau behind.

"Because..." O'Brien began, exasperated. "I can't complain milady. I got a good position in a fine house, and my father was right - I wouldn't have made much of a wife."

Sybil was appalled that a father could say such a thing. Perhaps if she'd been allowed to marry, she wouldn't have ended up quite so... prickly. She could've been happy. "You don't really believe that O'Brien, surely? You deserved to be happy as much as anyone."

"Not everyone gets a happy ever after milady." _Particularly when you're poor and plain and indentured_, O'Brien thought to herself.

Sybil's gaze lifted unconsciously to her window. "Did you love him?"

O'Brien stilled, her fingers poised on the next tiny button. _Yes_. "I couldn't say milady, it was a long time ago."

"You must remember..."

"Not really," she lied. In truth she tried not to give the past much thought and it was easy in this place not to find a minute's peace to reflect. He was different from the others, she remembered that; a little shy too, wouldn't say boo to a ghost, and he wasn't the handsomest lad by any stretch, but she thought the world of him.

"They say you never forget your first love..."

There'd been times O'Brien wished she could forget. "I wouldn't worry yourself milady," she said reassuringly, resuming unbuttoning and bottling up the past where it belonged. "After a while those feelings fade. They will for you too, in time. You'll see."

Sybil's nose wrinkled in abhorrence just at the thought. Realising they'd been talking at cross-purposes, she wasn't sure which was worse; the foregone conclusion that her father would forbid her marriage to Tom or the assumption that she would kowtow and give him up. "It won't come to that," Sybil clarified, "because I'm marrying Tom and nothing anyone can say will change that."

"But his Lordship..."

"...won't change my mind." Sybil felt the dress slacken and stepped out of the pool of grey fabric.

O'Brien's brow rose a notch, dubiously. "With all due respect milady, his Lordship's not exactly going to be over the moon when he hears."

Sybil had to agree. All this time she'd fooled herself into thinking she could have her cake and eat it too. Her father was never going to give his consent so readily, she realised. He would only see the differences, the class divide, the implausibility of the match just as O'Brien did. She paced in her slip. If only he could get to know Tom, the man, see how devoted he was, how good and kind and smart; she felt sure her father would warm to him. She just needed to buy some time.

Turning on the balls of her feet, Sybil watched O'Brien standing before her wardrobe brushing down her crumpled uniform when the answer presented itself. "O'Brien?" Sybil sprang animatedly toward her. "I need a favour."

O'Brien didn't like the sound of that.

"I need you to convince Thomas to hold his tongue, at least for now. Tell him anything. Tell him I'll make it worth his while, somehow." Sybil was fairly certain her trifling allowance wouldn't convince Thomas to tie his own shoe laces let alone keep her confidence, but it didn't matter. She had no intention of following the bribe through. "So long as he doesn't breathe a word to my father."

O'Brien smiled nervously. "You're not serious milady?"

"Completely," Sybil declared, planting her hands assertively on her hips. "You know how papa will react."

O'Brien had an inkling. "But I already told you, Thomas won't listen to me. When he gets an idea in his head, there's no stopping him."

Sybil clasped O'Brien's hands pleadingly eliciting a look of surprise. "Please O'Brien. Tom is a wonderful man..."

"I'm sure he is milady," O'Brien granted. "But it won't make a blind bit of difference, not to his Lordship." There wasn't a cats chance Lord Grantham would allow his daughter to marry a chauffeur. The idea! Aside from the damage to his own pride, all his hopes and dreams for his little girl would go up in smoke. He wouldn't be thrilled, understandably. He wanted the best for her, fathers generally did. "I'm sorry milady, I wish I could help."

Sybil recoiled, dropping O'Brien's hands as quickly as if she'd been scolded, and for an instant O'Brien saw herself twenty-odd years ago, the same disappointment dawning on her rosy face.

"I see," Sybil said dejectedly. "I thought you of all people would understand."

O'Brien felt a jolt of remorse and found herself wishing she _really_ could help, but it was hopeless. And even if Thomas could be convinced to keep his trap shut, the Granthams would find out sooner or later. Then what? If her involvement came to light, she would be summarily dismissed. And what would her Ladyship think of her if she ever found out her own maid had deliberately concealed her daughter's controversial engagement from her, much less aided the star-crossed pair?

O'Brien spoke with a lilt of humility hoping it might make what she had to say more palatable. "His Lordship only wants what's best for you milady."

Sybil humphed, sick and tired of being told what was 'best' for her. "No, he doesn't," she protested. "He wants me to marry someone with a title and an estate, and do the Season and pay calls. He wants me to go back to the way things were before the War. Well, I won't. I can't. I've seen too much to go back to that mindless way of life. I want more," she said with longing. "I want to work for my living, to be tired in a good way, and I want to come home every day to Tom, and live the way we want to live. I want to fall asleep in his arms and wake up to the sound of our children..." Sybil hadn't intended to let all her plans spill out that way, in one long frustrated rant, and certainly not to a bemused O'Brien, but she couldn't help it, she had to say it out-loud or she would burst. She needed someone to be on her side. "I know papa means well but he's so stuck in his ways, he can't see beyond Downton. Millions of people live perfectly happy productive lives without all this…" Sybil made a sweeping gesture with her hand about the room. "And so will I. I won't be dissuaded so don't even try," she added quickly. "I'm marrying Tom and papa will just have to get used to the idea. He won't have his way, I won't give him the chance." Sybil spun in a show of decisiveness and gave the maid her back, bracing herself for the inexorable push and pull of her corset laces. It never came.

O'Brien heaved a sigh instead. She still believed the wilful young lady was in for a rude awakening, scratching a living in the real world, but with that amount of fire in her belly, his Lordship didn't have a hope of stopping her. O'Brien wished she'd been that fearless once upon a time. "I'm not promising anything mind," she stipulated in advance, "but perhaps there is something I can do."

Sybil was stunned. "What about Thomas?"

O'Brien meditated on that. "Leave Thomas to me milady."

Sybil positively beamed, gazing hopefully up at her window, her apprehension easing slightly. "Thank you, O'Brien," she said gratefully.

The weary lady's maid gave herself a disapproving headshake. _So much for steering clear, Sarah O'Brien._

As O'Brien tugged her corset laces this was and that, Sybil glanced pointedly over her shoulder at her salvation sat innocuously at the bottom of her wardrobe and wondered how much time the small leather suitcase would actually buy her. 

* * *

><p>O'Brien sipped her tepid tea in quiet contemplation, oblivious to the bustle around the breakfast table that would normally irritate her. Half-listening to Mr Carson guffaw about something-or-other at the head of the table, she risked a sideways glance at Thomas seated in his usual spot beside her, making his stodgy porridge last an eternity.<p>

"You're very quiet this morning, Miss O'Brien," Thomas needled.

O'Brien looked up and connected with Mrs Hughes' shrewd eyes. "Just thinking," she proffered, flashing a tense smile.

"Wonders will never cease," Thomas jibed.

"Er, that's enough of your cheek," warned Mrs Hughes.

O'Brien waited for the housekeeper's gaze to return to her plate before throwing Thomas a glare.

Thomas tipped his cup to the pleased line of his lips and swallowed the last of the watery brew. "Right, that's me," he declared, landing his cup with a definitive thud and pushing away from the table.

O'Brien hastily followed, catching up with him by the stairs. "Oi ... What are you going to tell his Lordship?" she asked in a low voice.

"About what?"

O'Brien looked unimpressed. "Oh very droll," she chastised. "You know very well about what."

Thomas threw a glance down the corridor. "I thought you didn't want anything to do with it?" he queried quietly. "'_Leave me out of it'_ you said." He eyed her curiously trying to gauge what had changed since last night.

"I still don't," she assured him. "I'm not looking to take any credit or owt. Just a word to the wise - tell her Ladyship first."

Thomas's brow furrowed. He leaned in, incredulous. "What the hell for? So she can run and tell his Lordship and cut me out altogether. Not ruddy likely."

"No you daft hapeth. Because when his Lordship hits the roof, and he will, she's the only one capable of calming him down enough to think straight. He'll be in no mood to thank you while he's seeing red, will he?"

"S'pose not," Thomas ceded.

"Well then, I'll go and fetch her Ladyship and meet you somewhere more private ... the guest bedroom on the second floor, the one with damp nobody uses; it's out of the way so there's no chance anyone will overhear."

O'Brien's boot barely touched the first step when Thomas snagged her arm. "Why the change of heart?" he probed. "Last night you couldn't care less."

O'Brien kept her expression neutral. "I just owe it to her Ladyship is all."

Thomas pursed his lips as though he were trying to make his mind up about something. "You are a funny one."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she sniped a touch more sharply than she'd intended.

"Nothing," said Thomas. "Just that you've not _always _been quite so fond of her Ladyship."

O'Brien stiffened.

"You've not gone soft have you, Miss O'Brien?"

"Have I heck!" O'Brien retorted, indignant. "I've simply no intention of getting into her Ladyship's bad books for the sake of some doe-eyed crush."

* * *

><p>Thomas straightened his jacket, placed a hand on the doorknob and reminded himself that Lady Grantham wasn't the soft touch everyone thought her to be.<p>

He entered and was immediately struck by the smell; dense, stale and clinging to the air like fog. He could see why the room was given a wide berth by visitors and staff alike. Alone for the time being, he shut the door and wandered towards the window, noticing a patch of mould concealed behind the drapes staining the fancy wallpaper. Thomas scoffed, thinking it a rather fitting reflection of the Granthams: elegant and noble on the surface but dig a little deeper and in the right places and they weren't so different from everyone else - tarnished with the odd dirty little secret hidden from view.

Roaming the room to pass the time, Thomas sauntered up to the full length cheval mirror on the other side of the window and gave his reflection the once over, brushing his shoulder epaulets and making tiny adjustments to his belt and sleeve cuffs. Pleased with the result, Thomas saluted his mirror image. "Corporal," he greeted. Snapping his arms to his sides, he clicked his heels and saluted again with greater zeal. "Acting-Sergeant," he corrected, liking the important sound of his new rank.

It was then Thomas caught sight of something out of place on the bureau behind him. Staring askance at the reflection, he pivoted and approached the desk with narrowed eyes. A breakfast tray waited incongruously on the tabletop; the glass still full and the food fresh and untouched. He doubted it was left there by accident given the room had been unoccupied for some time; more likely one of the new maids had resorted to hoarding. There was a war on after all, times were tough. Whoever she was must've been up at the crack of sparrows to sneak this by Mrs Patmore and stow it all the way up here without being caught.

Thomas was still speculating when a noise drew his attention. It took a moment for the click of the deadbolt and the jangle of keys to register. He paled, ran to the door and squeezed the doorknob. Locked! He tried again to no avail. Then the shocking realisation hit. "Miss O'Brien?"

No answer.

"I know you're out there," he called through the wood panel. "Open the door."

Thomas rattled the handle. "If this is some kind of joke…" he said sounding unamused.

Nothing.

He cursed under his breath and pressed his forehead to the door. "Dammit O'Brien, I know you can hear me. Don't play silly beggars."

Thomas listened carefully for a reply, the sound of breathing, anything. He could sense a presence beyond the door and, though he couldn't be one hundred percent sure, he knew in his gut who it was. Clearly Miss O'Brien wanted him out of the way so she could take all the glory herself. "You won't get away with this," he threatened through gritted teeth.

On the other side, O'Brien stared long and hard at the locked door, conflicted. She knew there was no other way to keep Thomas quiet. He would never have sacrificed the opportunity to score a few brownie points with his Lordship willingly. At least this way his incarceration might be blamed on one of the staff playing a silly little prank, she reasonsed, or an innocent mistake. He wouldn't be able to prove a thing. Either way it wasn't forever, just several hours, plenty of time. Thomas wouldn't starve, she'd made sure of that, and, if memory served, there was a chamber pot under the bed. So with a sly smile she padded down the long guest wing.

Thomas banged his fist against the door. "I swear to God, when I get out of here ... the gloves are off! Do you hear me?"

"Miss O'Brien?" he called unable to keep the nervousness from cracking his voice. "Miss O'Brien?!"

After a full minute's silence, Thomas growled and kicked the door, pacing agitatedly back into the room like a caged zoo animal. Raking his fingers through his slick hair, he spotted the bureau bearing the 'forgotten' tray of food and laughed dementedly to himself, realising with a tinge of admiration that he'd been had.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

It was late, Sybil was tired and, as she made the long walk towards the family parlour, she felt her courage start to wane. She'd imagined this moment a hundred times; rehearsed the confrontation in her head until she figured she knew every possible permutation word for word. She was prepared for any argument. Why then, when finally faced with the parlour door and the muted voices of her family's chatter behind it, did her conviction falter and all her carefully chosen words escape her?

She could picture them already, their band of shocked disapproving faces, and her trepidation rose further. Suddenly the idea of confessing by letter seemed a good deal more appealing. However cowardly, a letter would at least allow her to explain, give her the opportunity to say why she knew in her heart this was right for her, why '_he'_ was right for her. Staring at the panelled door, singling out the sound of her father's voice, she realised she might not get that chance now. Sybil worried her lower lip. Her father sounded jovial, in good spirits. Soon he would not be.

A warm hand took hers and Sybil looked up into Tom's eyes, his deep blue gaze intent, reassuring and alight with love. He laced his lithe fingers between hers and lifted the back of her hand to his lips, pressing a long, heartrending kiss to her skin, calming her roiling nerves and sending a warm shiver down her spine. She slanted him a small smile. She knew what he was trying to tell her; that she wasn't alone, that whatever came next they would get through together and in the end it would be worth it.

"Ready?" Tom asked in a low, raspy voice.

Sybil nodded almost imperceptibly and took a deep breath as Tom reached for the handle.

Time seemed to slow for Sybil as she stepped inside the room, greeted by the sight of her father holding aloft a glass of brandy. _'To Matthew' _she heard him toast and inwardly cringed, remembering this was to be her cousin's last evening at Downton before returning to the Front. Poor Matthew stood diffidently beside her father wearing his service uniform and a self-effacing smile, a smile that turned lopsided as he registered their arrival. Sybil stilled and gripped Tom's hand a little tighter. "Maybe now's not the best time," she whispered in a panic.

Tom looked at her, concerned. She was pale as a sheet and her palm clammy against his. He'd never seen her so tense, but there was no turning back now. "Now is as good a time as any," he murmured. "They've a right to know."

Cora, seated gracefully in an armchair, her silk evening gown spooling around her ankles, glanced passed her husband. "Sybil," she announced, imbuing her daughter's name with a censorious tenor. "We expected you home hours ago. You've completely missed Matthew's farewell dinner," she berated, throwing Matthew an apologetic smile. "Honestly, I've a good mind to have a word with Doctor Clarkson for keeping you so late..." She trailed off as her gaze sharpened on her daughter's proximity to Branson. She almost hadn't recognised the young man out of uniform. Her gaze grazed his worn grey jacket and landed on their tightly joined hands. Cora's eyes widened. "Sybil..?" she queried apprehensively.

Seven pairs of eyes instantly turned on them, gawping at the oddity in the parlour doorway, Mr Carson among them. The starched butler, having just returned the silver salver to the Queen Anne table behind the sofa, froze mortified to see a lowly chauffeur in the house at all let alone hand-in-hand with a peer's daughter.

Sybil swallowed hard, wondering if this is how it felt to be one of those circus side-shows, ogled with intense scrutiny like some morbid curiosity.

Robert canted and looked from his daughter to his chauffeur and back again. "Sybil, what's this all about?"

Violet shifted on the sofa, somewhat befuddled. "Would someone please tell me what is going on, or have we all stepped through the looking glass?"

Robert fixed his daughter with a wilting stare. "Sybil?" he pressed, his voice an ominous rumble.

Mary and Edith exchanged nervous glances from opposite ends of the sofa.

Sybil scanned her family's expectant faces one-by-one coming to rest on her father's darkening features. She braced herself and drew a shaky breath, struggling to find her voice. "Papa, I have something important to tell you..."

"Why don't I like the sound of that?" Robert ventured, his mien suspicious.

"But before I do," Sybil hedged, "you must promise to hear us out."

Robert glanced warily at his liberal-minded chauffeur unsure he liked the subtext of '_us'. _"Tell me what?" he queried insistently. "What's this about…? Sybil?"

Glancing tellingly at Tom, Sybil faltered. Practising in her head was one thing, declaring it in person turned out to be quite another.

"Well, answer me young lady," Robert bid gruffly.

Tom bristled. "She's not a child," he objected defensively. "She's a grown woman..."

Robert arched an outraged brow, his face a picture of incredulity.

Tom stood his ground. "If you'll just give her chance to say her piece," he put in boldly.

Robert's nostrils flared. "How dare you," he fumed. "How dare you come into my home and tell me how I should behave. Need I remind you _who_ you are talking to?"

Tom's jaw clenched. He knew exactly the sort of stuck-up autocrat he was addressing and he could think of a few choice words for him too, but he held his tongue nevertheless.

"Papa..." Sybil interjected pleadingly, seeing where this standoff was headed.

Robert ignored her plea, focusing his fury on the impertinent little upstart presently taking liberties in his parlour. "You will leave at once...!"

"Papa!" Sybil protested vainly.

"...before I have you removed," Robert warned.

_You can try, _Tom thought to himself, his Irish blood beginning to boil. He ground his teeth and fought the urge to say something he knew he'd later regret, for Sybil's sake. "Look, I didn't come here to cause trouble…"

"You have no right to be _here_ at all," Robert hissed.

Tom lifted his chin defiantly. "I'm here 'cos Sybil wants me here..."

"_Lady_ Sybil," Robert corrected crossly.

Sybil saw the clenched muscle in Tom's jaw flex frustratedly and tried to step between them, but Tom's hand anchored her possessively aside. "Papa please!" She threw a beseeching look at her dumbfounded family.

Matthew stepped forward. "Come on, old chap," he urged, squeezing Robert's shoulder.

But Robert was having none of it. "No, I will not be disrespected in my own house." Seething, he levelled a finger at Tom's chest. "You have no right to barge in here and speak to me in that tone, much less give _me_ orders," he blustered. "And you certainly have no right to presume upon my daughter-" he bit off, indicating Tom's fingers still firmly entwined with Sybil's.

"I've every right," Tom snapped back. "She's my wife!"

Sybil grimaced.

_Not exactly how she'd planned on breaking the news._

* * *

><p>Stunned silence pervaded the parlour.<p>

All Sybil could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat hammering against her ribcage while she waited with wrought nerves for the revelation to sink in. The tension was palpable.

Robert shared a look of disbelief with his wife. "This is a joke?" he snorted. He might have laughed but his mouth had turned as dry as sand.

"It's no joke," Tom replied, gazing reverently at Sybil. "I'm in love with your daughter," he confessed, his voice hoarse with emotion, "and she's done me the great honour of becoming my wife."

Cora stared with wide eyes. "But... When? Where?" Overwhelmed, her mind tried desperately to fill in the missing pieces.

Sybil gazed back at Tom and smiled evocatively at the memory. "Earlier today, in Ripon," she said softly before facing her mother. "Father Dominic-"

"_FATHER!?_" Robert repeated aghast. He shouldn't be surprised, he supposed, that a priest performed the offending ceremony.

Sybil felt Tom flinch beside her. "Yes," she affirmed, squeezing his hand. "I don't care about all of that and it's important to Tom so..."

Robert rolled his eyes in disgust and covered his mouth with his fist to stem the profanities threatening to spill forth. Pivoting abruptly, he paced towards the fireplace and braced both hands on the hearth despairingly.

Cora watched her husband retreat for a moment's respite and was glad of it. He looked ready to explode. "It isn't possible," Cora disputed. "You've been at the hospital all day, you said so in your note, you left for work before breakfast..."

Sybil blanched and stared shamefully down at the exotically embroidered rug beneath her feet, racked with guilt for the falsehoods she'd penned the night before. It was then, after O'Brien left her, that something inside had snapped. She could no longer wait, not for another minute and certainly not 'til morning. Suddenly all of it; her father's wrath, the prospect of letting go of her old life and moving forward into the unknown, were nothing compared to the threat of losing Tom, just as O'Brien had lost her love. Had she acted differently, had O'Brien married her beau, no-one could have parted them. The idea gripped Sybil. If she could cement their union in the eyes of God and show her parents they were serious... They could not forbid her from seeing her own husband. Sure, it was an underhand way around it, but at least they would be together, lawfully man and wife. There was no shame in that. So she composed a brief note justifying her absence for the following day, retrieved her case from the wardrobe and packed a few essentials.

The extent of her daughter's subterfuge dawned. "Oh," was all Cora could manage.

Sybil looked up into her mother's betrayed eyes. She felt wretched for lying. "I'm not proud of myself," she admitted. "But what choice did I have? You would never have given your consent."

Robert's galled voice piped up from the fireplace. "You're right there," he clipped.

"You could have told us the truth," Cora accused frostily, bitter that her little girl would go to such pains to keep her feelings hidden from her.

A tap from Violet's cane punctuated the strained stalemate. "You'll have to forgive me, my mind isn't what it used to be, but let me see if I understand this correctly: Sybil has married the chauffeur? In secret? In a Catholic ceremony no less?"

Unenthusiastic sounds of affirmation ricocheted around the room.

"I see." Violet raised a haughty brow. "Well, it's this other poor chap I feel sorry for," she trilled.

Mary turned on the sofa, confused. "What other chap, granny?"

The Dowager Countess trifled with the sterling silver head of her cane. "You know, this wounded officer Sybil was so keen on, I forget his name. The one she's jilted for the chauff... I mean Branson," the Dowager amended, smiling awkwardly at Tom. "Sybil dear, I must say, its very bad form to lead one man up the garden path while courting another," she chastised imperiously.

Sybil glanced sheepishly at Tom.

Mary pinched the bridge of her nose. "Oh granny." Her tone took on the air of a beleaguered schoolteacher. "I think it's safe to say that Branson is this Arthur character we've heard so little about." Mary threw her baby sister a searching look.

The Dowager sniffed. "Well, I suppose that's something."

Robert took a large soothing swig of his brandy, emptying his glass and abandoning it on the mantel. "You mean to tell me that you made the whole thing up? The story about this poor fellow injured in the War?"

Sybil's stomach cinched as her father made a slow, disconcerting line towards her, his red-face grave and glowering.

Robert shot Tom a baleful glare. "That both of you stood in my study," he continued icily, pointing in that general direction, "and lied, blatantly, to my face?"

Sybil nodded, unable to deny it.

"And _this_ is the man you have chosen to marry," said Robert, his timbre scornful. "A liar and a thief to boot."

Tom's chest expanded viscerally. "I'm not a thief," he bit back.

Robert disagreed. "Skulking about, seducing my daughter, stealing her from behind my back," he charged. "I would hardly call that honourable."

"I haven't seduced anyone," Tom contested. "Give your daughter some credit for knowing her own mind."

"How can she, when she's been brainwashed by your liberal nonsense." Robert was now more convinced than ever that he should have dismissed Branson when he had the chance.

"Papa, I'm the one who lied, not Tom," she professed in her husband's defence. "I just... I couldn't bear to lose him." She glanced round and met Tom's stormy-blue gaze, bolstered by the adoration she saw there. "I love him, so very much." It was liberating to say it aloud.

Robert gave a derisive snort, taking Sybil's infatuation with a pinch of salt. "This is a folly, a ridiculous juvenile madness!"

"Papa, I've not come to this decision lightly," Sybil replied confidently. "I know what I want and that is to be with Tom."

"Sybil dear," Violet weighed in. "I have no doubt you feel strongly for Branson, and I'm sure he has many virtues..." Violet caught her son's look of awe and waved it away, "...but while it may seem thrilling now, in reality it can prove very uncomfortable."

Tom certainly felt uncomfortable listening to their bigoted opinion of marriage to a commoner. _Did they think poor folk still lived in caves?  
><em>

"Uncomfortable for whom?" Sybil asked peevishly. "There is no shame in being poor."

"Have you ever tried it?" Violet retorted dryly.

"We won't starve granny," Sybil argued, her chin set firm. "Tom's a journalist now and I'll get a job as a nurse once we're settled in Dublin."

"Dublin?!" several voices echoed in dismay.

Sybil squirmed, realising she hadn't yet revealed that part of the plan. "Yes," she confirmed nervously. "It's Tom's home, and his paper is there. It's a real chance for him - for both of us - to help with Ireland's troubles."

Cora stewed on the distance. It had been difficult enough to let Sybil train in York for a few months. How would she cope with her emigration to Ireland?

Robert was gobsmacked: that Sybil could be led so easily by the nose for one thing, and to Dublin of all places, 'the lion's den' as it were. The country was a dangerous place to be for pity's sake. "And this is how you propose to care for my daughter is it, by taking her to a land plagued by civil revolt?"

Tom felt the bile rise up in the back of his throat at the mere suggestion that he would willingly place Sybil in harm's way. "If I thought for one minute there was any danger..."

"You haven't thought, either of you!" Robert barked scoldingly.

Cora watched her daughter recoil. "Robert!" she cautioned.

"Well," he carped. "They have no idea what they're letting themselves in for."

"With all due respect m'lord," Tom began. "Sybil is of age, she doesn't need your permission."

Robert couldn't believe the nerve of the man. "Then why _are_ you here? Why bother coming back at all? You obviously care not for my opinion." Though he suspected he already knew the answer. "If its money you're after, you'll not get a penny out of me I assure you."

Somehow Tom wasn't surprised the Earl would bring money into this. He was just like all of his kind - overly confident in his own superiority; it would never occur to him that a commoner, an Irish commoner at that, would be capable of taking the moral high ground. Naturally Lord Grantham would assume he'd married Sybil for financial gain - it was typical, almost laughable. "Keep your precious money..." _I have the only thing I want.  
><em>

Robert frowned, surprised. "Very well, but make no mistake..." he imparted to his daughter "...if you do this, you will regret it for the rest of your life."

Tom reclaimed Sybil's hand. "I'm sorry you feel like that." For himself he hadn't expected anything else, but for Sybil, whose disappointment radiated off her in waves, he felt deeply wounded. At this point he seriously doubted there was anything he could say to win Lord Grantham's approval but he felt compelled to try. "I know I've given you no reason to trust me but, for whatever its worth, I intend to do right by your daughter." In time he would prove it. He turned to his new bride to find her sad eyes smiling fondly back. "Sybil." He beckoned towards the door, pausing a moment to allow her a moment to acquiesce.

"Sybil, where are you going?" Cora asked worriedly. It was nearly 9 o'clock at night. Where would she sleep?

"We'll stay at the Grantham Arms, for a day or so..." Sybil glanced discontentedly at her father, "...if anyone cares to say goodbye."

Cora spoke anxiously aside to her husband. "Robert, say something, stop her," she beseeched.

Robert wasn't at all convinced Sybil would listen. She could be as stubborn as a mule when she wanted to be (much like her grandmother), the result of indulging her every whim, he imagined. "Sybil, see reason," he implored. "Think about what you're giving up. It isn't too late to fix this."

Sybil's brow furrowed indignantly. Couldn't he see? "There is nothing to fix." They hadn't done anything wrong or broken any laws, and they weren't hurting anyone, with the exception of her father's pride. As far as she was concerned nothing had ever felt so right. "Whether you like it or not, Tom is my husband and we _are_ going to live in Dublin, and I couldn't be happier. I dearly hope that one day you can be happy for me too. Now I'll say goodnight," she added curtly.

Tom cast a departing glance in Mr Carson's direction and gave the old butler a nod of fellowship. He'd always been fair to Tom and he respected him for that. The brooding scowl he received in return could have levelled a small building and cut Tom more than he imagined it might. Obviously he was asking too much. A little crestfallen but still relieved to be leaving the stifling parlour, Tom headed for the foyer with Sybil at his heels. From now on it was just the two of them, no more waiting, no more obstacles. A fresh start.

As the newly-weds swept out of the parlour, Cora shot her husband a glare. "That wasn't what I meant," she griped of his attempt to "fix" things.

"What would you have me do?" Robert asked irritably, planting his hands doggedly on his hips. "She's making the biggest mistake of her life and she's too blind to even see it."

Violet stomped her cane. "Not to put too fine a point on it," she harped, stating the obvious, "but go after her."

Robert huffed wearily but did as his mother directed and gave chase, calling after the cause of his now aching head to wait. _Odd_, he thought, as he caught up to them in the lobby. Stood stock-still, his chauffeur-turned-son-in-law had Sybil tucked protectively under one arm, his stance rigid and territorial. Did he honestly think he would harm his own daughter? On the contrary, he would do anything to safeguard her future.

Tracking their gaze, the reason then barrelled into view. With a look of purpose about him, Thomas skidded to a halt in front of them as an agitated Mrs Hughes and Miss O'Brien emerged from the servant's access in hot pursuit.

"What on earth?!" gasped Robert. Did every member of his staff intend to invade his privacy this evening?

Mr Carson appeared from the parlour, slack jawed at all the commotion. "What is the meaning of this?"

"I'm sorry Mr Carson, your Lordship," panted a harangued Mrs Hughes, "I tried to tell him, but he insisted." She motioned to the dishevelled-looking corporal, his service jacket absent, shirtsleeves rolled up and top collar carelessly unbuttoned.

Thomas wasted no time. "My Lord," he began in a manner befitting a town crier preparing to make a public pronouncement. "I apologise for the intrusion," he puffed. "I would have come to you sooner, but I've been...detained," he said with deliberate emphasis.

Sybil traded uneasy glances with O'Brien.

Thomas threw a pointed look at Branson. "I must tell you something you may find shocking to hear..." He paused seemingly for effect.

"Well..?" Robert prompted impatiently. "Spit it out man."

Thomas was loathed to trim his big build up but pressed on. "I felt you ought to know, your Lordship, that Mr Branson here has been carrying-on an illicit affair with your daughter, Lady Sybil." _Finally_, he sighed, after being locked in that godforsaken room all day and banging on the door until his good hand throbbed, he could expose the truth. If it hadn't been for one of the new housemaids losing her way around the maze of corridors, he might still be there now. Miss O'Brien had vehemently denied any involvement of course, but her just desserts would keep. As for his, Thomas felt sure his Lordship would thank him verily once he'd gotten over the shock.

"So I gather," Robert remarked testily, turning his back on the thwarted corporal.

Thomas's pale face fell. Hardly the plaudit he'd hoped for.

"Sybil," Robert entreated, drawing her aside. "Please, for your own sake, reconsider this business..."

_Business? _Sybil repeated in her head. It didn't bode well that he couldn't even say the word. "If by that you mean my marriage…?"

"Alright," Robert cut in. "No good can come of this "_marriage_"," he said, demeaning the term, "and in the cold light of day you will see the truth of that." He inclined his head to Branson waiting anxiously. "However many good qualities Branson may possess, he cannot hope to provide for you or, for that matter, your children..." Robert found the idea of one Fenian grandchild objectionable, let alone a whole brood. The thought of Sybil getting into that predicament with the chauffeur was one he would rather not entertain. "You could have your pick of eligible young men; men of means able to give you every advantage. Think of all the good you could do, a lady in your position, all the charities you could champion..."

Sybil's nose wrinkled with righteous indignation. "Without getting my hands dirty, is that it?"

Robert didn't like the sound of her scathing tone. He had suffered through the tantrums of three grown daughters and knew all too well the impasse that followed, usually lasting until _he_ admitted defeated. Well there would be no white flag this time.

"Papa, that isn't me." She could not simply sit idly by in her ivory tower while others helped to get the country and its wounded back on their feet. "I can't go back to chairing committee meetings and planning charity drives. I need to be busy, useful." Besides, her nursing wasn't in contention here. Sybil glanced over at Tom. He looked hurt and a little angry, and he had every right to be. "I have to go."

Robert's gut twisted. "I won't allow it!" he fumed. "I will not allow you to throw away your life!"

"Papa, you can't stop me," Sybil railed. "It's done. You can posture all you like, it won't make any difference."

"Oh yes it will," Robert growled. If he had to scare some sense into her to keep her safe, so be it.

"How? I don't want any money and you can hardly lock me up until I die."

"No," Robert concurred, thinking furiously. _Perhaps not indefinitely_, he decided. "Just until you come to your senses." With that he took Sybil by the elbow and frogmarched her like a wayward child back towards the stairs. Clearly she didn't know what she was doing. And whether she was love-struck, brainwashed or simply too pigheaded to see the dangers of this path, either way it was up to him to save her from herself, not to mention a life of drudgery and starvation.

"Papa!" Sybil protested disbelievingly, unable to wriggle free from his grasp.

Tom's eyes flared. "Let her go!" He bolted after them.

"Carson, Thomas," Robert called over his shoulder as he dragged Sybil up the staircase. "Please escort Mr Branson from the premises. He's trespassing. Call the police if you must."

Carson gawped, perplexed. "My Lord?"

"You heard me Carson," Robert issued.

"No!" Sybil cried. "Tom." She turned enough to see Thomas grab Tom's arm, stopping him in his tracks. Instinctively Tom spun and swung low, impacting Thomas's gut with a resounding oomph.

Mrs Hughes and Miss O'Brien gasped and skittered back to avoid being bowled down by the doubled-over corporal.

Carson snared Tom's wrist before he could take the stairs. "Come on son," his baritone voice reasoned. "Perhaps you should go, for now at least." The raw desperation burning in the young man's eyes gave Carson pause.

"I won't leave without Sybil." Tom made a point not to shake free of Mr Carson's restraining grip. "I don't want to fight you Mr Carson." He lifted his sombre gaze from the butler's hand clamped on his forearm. "So please don't make me."

Carson had to admit he felt for him. Any fool could see the state he was in over Lady Sybil and, though this evening's debacle was all of his own making, it didn't sit well with Carson: dividing two young people with so firm an attachment, however misguided their affections. He knew he ought not to question his Lordship's handling of the situation, but surely there was a less drastic solution. With the sounds of Lady Sybil's protestations ringing in his ears, Carson locked eyes with Branson and, for the first time in ... forever, did something he never thought himself capable of - defying his Lord and Master, a man he'd come to respect and cherish over his five decades of service - and freed Tom's arm.

Tom softened. "Thank you, Mr Carson."

The stout butler shooed him on grouchily. "Go," he said quietly. "Before I change my mind."

Tom smiled gratefully, turning on his heels -

And rammed headfirst into Thomas's driving fist.

Carson winced as Tom dropped cold to the floor with a sickening thud, a nasty reddish graze on his temple. Mouth agape, the butler stared dismayed at the lad's still form by Thomas's feet.

Thomas waggled his still bruised jaw in retribution. "I'd say that makes us even now Mr Branson," he lauded, leaning on the banister to catch his breath. "Well done Mr Carson, I couldn't have done it without you."

Carson scowled at Thomas with distaste. He'd never meant to distract the poor lad. _What a mess_, he thought, leaning over Tom's unconscious body. He opened his mouth to call for Mrs Hughes' assistance when Lord Grantham beat him to it.

"Mrs Hughes?" Robert hollered from the recesses of the first floor.

A shell-shocked O'Brien brushed passed Thomas and followed Mrs Hughes up the staircase towards the sound of his Lordship's voice. He stood, red-faced and ruffled, waiting outside Lady Sybil's bedroom, holding the doorknob tight. A thump from the other side of the door confirmed the whereabouts of Lady Sybil herself.

"Papa!" came Sybil's muffled shout from inside her room followed by another bang. "Let me out."

"Mrs Hughes, I need your house keys," Robert beckoned impatiently.

Without preamble, Mrs Hughes unclipped the key chain from her belt and reluctantly offered the bundle to her employer, sharing a look of concern with Miss O'Brien as he summarily locked Sybil's door, sending the deadbolt home with a definitive click. "Your Lordship, is this really necessary? Afterall-"

Robert cut her short. "From now on only I will hold the key to this door and no-one is to go in or out without my express permission, is that understood?"

Mrs Hughes opened her mouth to argue and thought better of it.

"Is that understood?!" Robert repeated baldly, in no mood to have his authority questioned by another member of his staff.

Startled by his brusqueness, Mrs Hughes agreed. "Yes my Lord," she said through gritted teeth, jumping as the door rattled on its hinges again.

"Papa, you can't do this," Sybil called, her voice breaking.

Robert lay one hand on the door, conflicted. "Sybil, you are my daughter and I love you, and though you may not see it now, I do this for your own good."

Sybil let out an exasperated grunt. "Papa, Tom and I are married and nothing is going to change that."

Robert detached Sybil's key from the keychain and slipped it into his pocket. "We'll see about that." He landed the rest back into Mrs Hughes' hands, took a deep decisive breath and headed for the telephone.

Sybil pumped her fist on the door again and again. "Papa?" she yelled repeatedly. When it became apparent he was no longer there to answer, Sybil gave one last frustrated bang on the panel and sank, distraught, to the floor, burying her face in her hands.

Mrs Hughes and Miss O'Brien looked helplessly from the door to one another as Sybil's desolate sobs drifted into the hall.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"_Don't be silly," Sybil protested. "This is the moment we've come for."  
><em>

_Tom glanced anxiously around the crowded courtyard of the Ripon By-Elections, every turn heaving with the scrunched, angry faces of disgruntled constituents and his stomach tightened. As much as he admired Sybil's passion for the cause, she couldn't have picked a worse time to stick to her guns. The agitated throng shoving at their elbows was growing ever more rowdy as the count was read on stage by an official whose top hat and coat were smattered with egg stains.  
><em>

"_Trevor Andrew Morgan, the Liberal Party," the speaker announced, attempting to project his voice above the heckles.  
><em>

_Jostled by the hemmed-in mob, Tom kept a protective hand at the small of Sybil's back. "This lot aren't interested in politics, they're spoiling for a fight."  
><em>

_Spotting the crested black helmets of a handful of policemen diligently working their way into the horde, Tom quickly realised they weren't going to be much use. If anything these village bobbies were the ones in need of help; facing-off against a dangerous mix of Suffragettes, Tories and aggrieved workhands, they were certainly in for a rough time. Had any of these local Constables even seen a riot before, he wondered contemptuously.  
><em>

_The councillor continued reading from his crumpled sheet ducking the occasional stone lobbed from the rabble. "5,894 votes," he called one decibel below a shout. "I hereby declare..."  
><em>

_Tom turned back to Sybil. Remarkably, despite the furore around her, she was completely captivated by the speaker, oblivious to the trouble brewing, her eyes alight with anticipation. He couldn't help staring, transfixed by her profile, her lips parted slightly in awe. His breath caught in his chest and Tom found himself falling for her all over again. In amongst it all - the danger, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the crush of bodies - he was intensely aware of her. He tried reminding himself that it was hopeless, that she was out of his league but the feelings persisted, feelings a lowly chauffeur had no right to.  
><em>

_The call of Sybil's name from across the yard drew Tom's gaze over her shoulder to Mr Matthew pressing towards them.  
><em>

"_Sybil, what on earth are you doing here?" he asked edgily.  
><em>

"_I couldn't miss this," Sybil replied, turning excitedly back to the platform.  
><em>

"_Couldn't you, I could," Matthew grated.  
><em>

_Tom raised his voice above the din. "Mr Matthew, please, I've been trying to tell her; we can't stay here. It isn't safe." No sooner had the portentous words left his mouth, a commotion stirred up behind him. Tom spun and his gut knotted as a tide of louts poured into the courtyard, knocking caps off heads and pushing bystanders left and right. "I don't like the look of this milady."  
><em>

_The malicious-looking band of men spread into the crowd like locusts hell-bent on causing damage. Tom eyed one of the ringleaders heading straight for them and cast a worried glance at Sybil. The stocky middle-aged man had a hardened look about him, world-weary with cold grey eyes, glazed by alcohol he shouldn't wonder. Either way he wasn't getting near Sybil. Tom rushed forward to intercept him. "Look, look, I'm on your side. Don't cause any trouble. You have to believe me." The stench of beer on his clothes was overpowering but for a split-second he thought the man might actually listen to reason.  
><em>

_Tom realised his mistake when a firm, swift shove sent him stumbling backwards careening into another bystander. His temper flared and he wanted to retaliate but the bystander's grip tightened about his arms, restraining him, forcing him to watch while Matthew faced-off with the ringleader. Sybil looked on nervously from the periphery, far too close for comfort, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do.  
><em>

_"What's your problem then Mr La De Da?" the ringleader jibed.  
><em>

_Matthew stood toe to toe with the thug. "My problem is you."  
><em>

"_Oh aye."  
><em>

_Punches were thrown and for a long, terrifying moment Tom lost sight of Sybil in the tussle, the sound of glass breaking making his skin prickle with dread. As the sea of people parted, his eyes flared and his blood ran cold at the scene before him - Matthew crouched on the cobbles beside Sybil, sprawled and still. Please God No!  
><em>

_Tom had never known a pain like it. His stomach wrenched and he struggled for breath. He tried to yank from the bystander's clutches but to no avail. "I have to help her," he pleaded, writhing futilely, his features contorting in anguish.  
><em>

"_You're not goin' anywhere son," the anonymous bystander retorted, grappling with his prisoner.  
><em>

_Tom glanced round and grimaced as a distinctive black helmet loomed over him, strapped to the chin of a burly Constable looking as if he'd made the catch of the day.  
><em>

"_On their side are ya?" said the Constable, repeating Tom's plea with the ringleader.  
><em>

_Tom shook his head. "I didn't mean..."  
><em>

"_Tell it to the Magistrate," the Constable said dismissively, shackling Tom's wrists behind his back.  
><em>

_Tom squirmed indignantly against the pinch of metal. "You've got it all wrong," he growled, infuriated. "I'm here with..."  
><em>

_He looked back, struck by the sight of Matthew gathering Sybil's limp form into his arms, adjusting her weight against him, his own possessiveness eating him up inside. It should be me, he thought, choked-up to see the woman he loved carried away through the maelstrom.  
><em>

_As the crowd swallowed up the last precious sight of her, the tenor of a familiarly imperial voice drew his attention back to the platform. Impossibly, there stood Lord Grantham, dressed to the nines in full army regalia, seemingly unphased by the riot taking place at his feet.  
><em>

_Tom frowned. It couldn't be.  
><em>

_Robert lifted a condemning finger in Tom's direction, his features a blanket of disdain. "Take him away."_

* * *

><p>Tom woke with a start, bolting upright in bed, his head immediately protesting the sudden movement. Squeezing his eyes shut, he stilled, testing his temple with the tips of his fingers, wincing. Dried blood encrusted his forehead and it all came crashing back to him.<p>

His lids opened and fluttered fiercely against the sunlight streaming in from a high window. Shielding his eyes, he remembered flashes of consciousness; the jostling of a car, black helmets peering down at him, the clang of metal.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, fighting nausea, Tom padded slowly across the room, sighing defeatedly, before resting his temple against the cool bars of his jail cell. "Sybil," he uttered dejectedly to himself.

As it turned out his nightmare hadn't been all that far from reality. Sybil was once again beyond his reach and Lord Grantham had done a damn fine job of making sure she stayed that way.

* * *

><p>Cora charged into the library without knocking. "Robert..." she began resolutely, only to be silenced by a wave of her husband's free hand as he concluded his conversation on the telephone.<p>

"No, that won't be a problem," Robert replied into the mouthpiece, catching the scrutiny in Cora's gaze. "Good. Until tomorrow then."

"Who was that?" Cora pried as soon as the receiver landed.

"Murray," Robert confirmed succinctly, turning back to his bureau, busying himself.

"You're going to London?" she probed. _At a time like this_. "Why?"

Robert hesitated. "No, I've asked Murray here," he amended, making a mental note to ask Carson to prepare luncheon for his lawyer. "He's putting together the case for Sybil's annulment and bringing the papers up with him."

Cora cocked her head. "Oh Robert," she chided. "Do you honestly think that a piece of paper is going to put an end to all this?" When Robert frustratedly discarded his pen to soothe his creased brow, Cora softened and moved to stand behind her troubled husband. Rubbing his shoulders, she could feel the knots of tension abate and smiled as he leaned back, resting his head against her blouse. "She's in love, Robert," Cora said softly.

Robert stiffened and pulled away, scooting his chair closer to the desk, leaving Cora's hands floating mid-air.

Cora sighed wearily at her husband's resistance and circled the desk. "I want to keep Sybil safe as much as you do..."

Robert could sense a 'but' coming.

"...but, I'm telling you now - we're already losing her."

Robert glanced up with consternation in his dark eyes. "How is she?" he asked finally.

Cora looked off into the middle distance thinking about the last few days trying to coax a single word from her baby girl. "She's angry Robert, and is it any wonder."

Robert frowned. "It's for her own good, Cora," he reminded her sharply. "I thought you understood that. We agreed to give it time..."

"...to let the dust settle," Cora contested. "To give everyone time to calm down. Not to keep her locked up indefinitely."

Robert's jaw tightened. "It won't be forever," he said defensively.

"Then how long, Robert?" she pressed. "How long do I tell our daughter she is to remain a prisoner in her own home?"

Robert stared pointedly at the family photographs lining his desk, Sybil's happy-go-lucky smile beaming back at him. The truth was he didn't know how to answer that question. He was acting on the instincts of a father trying to protect his little girl from her own foolishness. There was no guide or rulebook, just the goal of keeping her safe and well and away from those who would take advantage of her naivety.

Cora tried another tack. "She asks about him."

Just the mention of 'him' rankled Robert.

"What do I tell her?"

Robert opened his mouth to speak and then changed his mind. Sybil didn't need to know that 'the chauffeur' was rotting in a cell awaiting charges, nor that the police chief (an old comrade in arms) was setting in motion his deportation back to Ireland. She didn't need any further upset right now.

Robert deliberated. "Tell her the truth," he replied squarely, "that he won't be coming back." _ The sooner she accepted that the better. Once Branson was out of her life, Sybil could put this whole episode behind her and move on._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author Note: <strong>Sorry about the wait. It's difficult to find the time but I do plan to continue. Thank you for sticking with it._


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15  
><strong>

The heavens opened over Thirsk pelting the Cod Beck solidly for a fortnight, leaving the swelling river threatening to burst its banks and market that Monday a washout. By noon the clock tower stood quite alone in the town square, chiming the hour to itself, the grey limestone of the cenotaph dark and slick from the winter downpour. The surrounding streets were quiet save for the occasional hurrying of shoes along the wet cobbles and the rumble of the ironmonger's delivery van splashing its way through ruts and puddles in the road.

Overshadowed by menacing dark clouds, Thirsk's jail, built out of the ruins of the old castle, stood watch over the small town from its remote grassy escarpment like a gargoyle perched on the eaves of a cathedral. The guttering of the jail being what it was, old and cracked in places, leaked down the mossy ramparts dripping rainwater rhythmically onto a sill on the south wall, daubing the white washed stone of the cell inside with an algae-green stain.

Tom lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, staring blindly up at the cracks in the stone ceiling, numb to the noises drifting up from the depths of the jail; muffled voices, indistinct bumps and bangs; the periodic footfalls of the guards on patrol. The temperature in the cell was cold enough to cause his breath to fog and his skin to dimple with gooseflesh beneath his overalls but Tom, too mired in misery, neither noticed nor cared. At least if he succumbed to pneumonia right here and now it would put an end to the icy grief gripping his insides.

Being accustomed to bracing Irish winters, the cold weather didn't bother him so much. If anything, he expected it was the waiting that would do him in. Not all that long ago he'd imagined no worse a fate than dying in no man's land under a hail of gunfire. But now? Christ now, he would give his eye teeth for a quick merciful release from this slow, agonising death. Living - if you could call it that - in limbo, not knowing what was to become of him, not knowing if he would ever see Sybil again, fearing the worst, it was like a cancer eating away at him day by day. The prospect of never having her in his arms - when he gave in to such thoughts - dragged him down into such a deep depression that it constricted his chest and made even the simple task of breathing painful.

His dreams were his only escape. Sybil came to him almost nightly in such vivid, sensual dreams that more often than not he woke in a sweat, aroused and breathing hard, snatched all too soon back to the cold stark realm of the living, overcome with an insatiable longing and a bone-deep sense of loss. So he clung as much as he could to those brief moments before coming fully awake where all was well with the world, where Sybil lay warm and soft against him. Those half-lucid seconds, before he remembered that he was alone in the dark, were pure bliss.

When sleep evaded him, as it frequently did, or during those solitary hours inmates were confined to their cells to reflect on the error of their ways, Tom spent unrepentantly retracing every detail; _the halo of dark curls glowing auburn in the sunlight suffusing the church, the nervous flush pinking her pale lace-trimmed neckline; the smile that lit her eyes as he spoke his vows, the solemn cadence of her voice pledging 'to love, honour and cherish' that made him wonder if his heart might burst. _He could live a lifetime in those moments.

Immersed in his daydreams, Tom failed to notice the faint footfalls patrolling in the background grow louder and more purposeful until they reached his cell door. "Branson," heralded a guard in a low dispassionate voice with two forceful knocks and a clanging of keys. "Visitor."

With his wrists shackled together, Tom quietly followed the thickset guard through the bowels of the jail and down a long brick corridor lit intermittently by industrial metal lamps hanging from the ceiling. Every few yards the guard's blue/black cap would disappear into the long shadows before re-emerging once more into the cone-shaped glow of fluorescent lamplight. At the far end of the corridor the guard, known to him only as Higgs, halted and opened a door to his left. Tom looked questioningly from the innocuous door to the stoic guard. With a wordless flick of his head, Higgs motioned for him to enter giving no clue as to what or who he might expect to find on the other side.

Tom took a deep breath and stepped inside. The door slammed shortly behind him but he could sense Higgs standing by on the other side.

The barrel-ceilinged room was small and dim, lit solely by another metal lamp suspended above a small wooden table and chairs. With his brow knit, Tom edged forward into the otherwise empty room and rounded the table, running his fingers contemplatively along the grainy oak surface. Before he could speculate overmuch, the sound of nearing footsteps and talking piped up beyond the door at which Higgs was stationed. The muffled conversation continued for a minute and Tom strained to pick out the odd word or two. He couldn't be certain but he could've sworn he heard a voice that sounded very much like the Warden utter "... second chance." _Was this it?_ Tom wondered hopefully. _Was this to be his reprieve?_

When finally the door opened, it was indeed the grey-haired Warden that entered followed closely by none other than the man responsible for his being here in the first place. Lord Grantham's loaded glare immediately connected across the room with Tom's.

The Warden glanced from his internee back to Lord Grantham. "You're sure about this?" he frowned.

"Quite sure," Robert replied extending his hand to him. The Warden's hesitation was plain. "You worry too much Reggie," he cajoled after a beat, patting his former comrade-in-arms on the shoulder.

"So the Mrs tells me," the Warden said dryly.

Tom watched their easy exchange with consternation. He shouldn't be surprised, he supposed. His Lordship probably had a good many friends in influential places. No wonder his sentencing had been so swift.

"This won't take long," Robert assured the Warden on his way out.

As the door clicked shut, a tense silence fell.

Tom had imagined confronting Lord Grantham a dozen times over; the innumerable names and expletives he could throw his way, the tirade of injustices he could lay at his door. Now that the moment had actually arrived, words escaped him. Jaw clenched, Tom simply seethed and waited for his adversary to play his hand.

Robert cast an assessing eye over his former chauffeur and broke the standoff. "You don't _seem_ surprised to see me?"

Tom's lips twitched with the hint of an ironical smile. "Can't say as I am." In truth he hadn't been able to stop his irrational mind from rushing ahead of itself, hoping against hope that his visitor might've been Sybil. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist the temptation to gloat." He made no effort to hide his indignation.

Robert sighed. "I'm sorry you think so," he said a little weary at being cast as the villain of the piece. He was beginning to have his fill of it. "But no, I haven't come to gloat." Branson scoffed at this ruffling Robert's feathers. "I'm here to offer you a way out."

The revelatory offer hung in the charged stale air. Tom wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Certainly not that.

Robert caught the surprise in Branson's dark-circled eyes. "That's right," he added, advancing with intent now that his bait had hooked its quarry. "You can go home, and put this whole sorry business behind you."

Tom's gut pinched. He didn't like where this headed and he didn't trust Lord Grantham's apparent change of heart. "Just like that?"

Robert gave a barely perceptible nod and came to stand on the opposite side of the table. "You have my word as a gentleman," he swore. "I will secure your release and, to make amends, give you a good reference and a generous settlement, enough for you to start a new life."

Now it was beginning to make sense. "A new life without Sybil, you mean?"

"That is the bargain, yes," Robert owned. "Your freedom and reparation for your ... troubles," he said stumbling over the word, "in exchange for your signing this." At that he reached inside his jacket and pulled out the envelope that had been burning a hole in his breast pocket since his arrival.

As Lord Grantham laid the ominous document out on the table before him, Tom eyed the official looking paper warily. "What's that?" He made no move to read it.

"An Agreement, drawn up by my Solicitor," Robert said matter-of-factly. "Quite basically it states that you will not object to the dissolution of your marriage to Sybil, that you will not make any attempts to contact her nor any claims on her fortune, and that you will not seek to publicise knowledge of your elopement."

Horrified and furious, Tom turned away and paced a few steps. He couldn't believe what he was hearing or the cold calculating manner in which Lord Grantham had summarised that appalling document as if he were reading a shopping list. Perhaps that's all it was to _him; _a list of items to tick off: Daughter's reputation saved - check. Undesirable son-in-law removed - check. Family scandal averted - check.

Robert produced his personal fountain pen and placed it on the table, punctuating the offer.

Tom whirled. "If you think I'll agree to any of that, you've got another thing coming!" he raged, the tips of his ears reddening.

Robert stiffened. "In spite everything Branson, I had hoped you would see reason..."

"Reason!" Tom spat, tugging on his manacles for emphasis. "You call _this _reasonable? Having me locked up for daring to marry your daughter!?" Exacerbated, his Irish brogue grew thick and accusing.

"Don't be absurd," Robert countered. "You were disturbing the peace and sentenced accordingly." His logic sounded feeble even to his own ears.

Tom snorted derisively. "You've got some nerve."

"Considering the harm you have caused my family, I think it a very reasonable offer."

Tom glowered. "Do you think I care so little for Sybil that I would throw her away by signing that thing..."

Robert squared his shoulders. "If indeed you are sincere in your feelings for my daughter," and at this point he hoped that was the case, "then you will wish to do what's right for her. If you do love her-"

"Of course I do," Tom insisted, "more than anything. Why is that so hard for you to believe?"

"Then sign it," Robert pleaded. "Put her future first, I beg you."

Tom never thought he'd see the day the almighty Lord Grantham begged for anything. "And if I refuse?" _What then?_

Robert lifted his cool gaze from the table. "Then you will be deported back to Ireland and serve the rest of your sentence there," he said frankly. He could see Branson weighing his words. "And by the time you see the light of day, you'll be a known criminal, an outcast, with little or no prospects. Who would take you on then?"

"Sybil is still my wife." Tom held on to that.

"For now," Robert said obscurely, pressing on despite Branson's sharp glare. "But ask yourself this, will she wait? Will she still feel the same in your absence, or in the difficult months or years to come? She is young and changeable. I ought to know after all the fads I've seen her go through."

Tom frowned. He didn't want to let his Lordship's doomsaying get to him but, God help him, it did. The seed of doubt had been sown.

"I could be wrong of course," Robert acknowledged. "Sybil can be incredibly stubborn. She might bear it better than most - seeing her husband behind bars. I'm not sure I could stomach it myself; having my wife walk through those gates every week, having to watch her suffer the leers of the guards and the other prisoners, having her become an outcast herself. I imagine it must be quite emasculating, knowing there is nothing you can do stuck inside while your wife fends for herself."

Tom shot him a baleful glare. "You bastard!" He would've swung for him if he could. "You're rigging the game. If you think Sybil will stand for this..."

"Sybil is already coming round," Robert lied, noting the flicker of doubt pain Branson's features. "And once the marriage is annulled-"

"You can't just-"

"I can!" the Earl barked. "Lord knows I've enough grounds for an annulment." Murray had prepared an air-tight case and the rest was a mere formality.

Tom slanted him a shrewd look. "If you've got it all sewn up then why bother coming here at all?" _Why the pretence of this 'deal'?_

Robert chewed on his reply. "Because ... despite what you may think Branson, I have no desire to ruin your life," he said truthfully. "You're bright, intelligent. You aspire to a future in journalism I gather. That dream can still be achieved."

Tom stared at him incredulously. Was he supposed to be grateful? "You must be so proud of yourself."

"I have done what I must," Robert said hotly. "When you become a father you will understand. You will do anything, no matter how unconscionable, to protect your child," he looked down at the Agreement and heaved a sigh, "even if they would hate you for it."

Tom regarded his reluctant father-in-law. Perhaps he wasn't the monster he had built him up to be, but that didn't change the fact that it was hard to sympathise with the man backing him into a corner.

He wiped his dry lips on the back of one bound hand. Some choice: rot in prison or end his marriage. Either way he would lose Sybil. Perhaps he already had and he'd simply been fooling himself all this time. _'Will she still feel the same?' _Lord Grantham's disturbing words churned around and around in his head adding fuel to his own fears. Would she feel differently now? Would she resent him? Suddenly he wasn't so sure of anything. Tom found his knees growing weak under him and sagged slowly on to one of the chairs.

Robert pulled out the other and sat opposite. "Sybil is resilient. She will move on. She '_will' _find happiness, I promise you that."

Tom blinked up. Was that supposed to be a comfort? Could either of them ever really move on? An image sprang inexplicably into his mind - of those russet curls tumbling gracefully down the smooth curve of her back. Maybe he was simply too selfish where Sybil was concerned, too blinded.

Robert slid the Agreement forward. "Sign it," he urged. "And you shall have your pardon."

Tom stared bleakly at the posh paper filled with fancy words. He felt sick. Was he seriously considering breaking his vows to Sybil? He didn't know which way was up anymore. "You leave me no alternative."


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16  
><strong>

"Hold on a moment," Mary called before Anna could take the stairs.

Anna froze mid-step on the gallery landing and turned. "Yes milady?"

"Let me see that, would you." Mary frowned over the uneaten contents of the breakfast tray in her maid's arms and let out a faint groan.

Anna shared her concern. Lady Sybil had been so down lately, she hadn't much of an appetite. "Don't worry milady, she'll bounce back. I'm sure of it."

"Will she? I wish I shared your optimism."

Anna offered a consolatory smile. "Time heals all wounds, or so they say." She hoped for Lady Sybil's sake that was true. "Besides she's a strong young lady, stronger than she gives herself credit for."

Mary gestured dubiously at the breakfast tray. "Not if she keeps this up." There would be nothing left of her sister at this rate.

"I did try," Anna said disappointedly of her efforts to coax Sybil to take a bite of her breakfast. "She insisted she wasn't hungry."

"Well," Mary declared, "we'll see about that." She wasn't about to sit back and let Sybil waste away, not if she could help it. Mind made up, Mary plucked the tray-table from Anna's grasp, surprising her.

"I don't think… I mean Mr Carson wouldn't…" Anna reluctantly parted with the tray but kept her hands hovering at the ready, just in case.

"It's alright Anna," Mary smiled. "You may go," she said, injecting a little firmness into her voice. "I'll see to Lady Sybil."

Anna hesitated. "If you're sure milady..?" She bobbed compliantly and headed downstairs, throwing a backward glance as Mary disappeared along the landing looking most strange carrying a serving tray. Perhaps she would have better luck getting Lady Sybil to eat something. Anna certainly wouldn't dare refuse her. What a terrifying prospect, she mused - being spoon fed by Lady Mary Crawley.

After a few moments of gauging how best to balance the breakfast tray, Mary knocked quickly on Sybil's bedroom door. "Sybil darling," she called. "It's me, it's Mary." Squeezing the doorknob with one hand, she pushed her way into the room jostling the chinaware and cutlery in the process. Her gaze swept the mess of bedclothes expecting to find her sister curled in amongst them. Empty. Then, by the window, a fountain of unruly dark curls, stark against the late morning light, caught her eye. Tucked into one corner of the window-seat with her arms wrapped around her legs and the tail of her nightie dangling down, Sybil looked lost in thought.

Mary glanced around for the best place to deposit the tray deciding the table bearing Sybil's porcelain pitcher and washbowl would suffice. Judging by her state of dishevel, Mary doubted her sister had made much use of the washstand anyhow. "There," she breathed, landing the rattling tray with finality. "I'm not sure I'd make a very good maid," she joked dryly.

No response.

"It'll be cold by now," Mary persisted, looking down at the plate of eggs, toast and tea, "but you really must eat something. It won't do any good to make yourself ill."

Sybil angled her face a little further away hoping her sister would take the hint.

Mary sighed and joined her to admire the prospect from the window. There wasn't much of a view today of course; the morning had been marred by a veil of stormy grey clouds and the pane had fogged around Sybil's warm form obscuring much of the grounds below. "Nice weather for ducks," Mary said inanely, sneaking a sidelong glance at her sister. Even in profile she looked worryingly drawn.

Sybil knew Mary meant well but she simply couldn't pretend that nothing had changed. "I'm tired Mary, leave me be - please." At that she rose and went back to bed, burrowing under the duvet and tucking the cover beneath her chin.

Mary followed and perched herself on the edge of the four-poster. She wasn't about to give up so easily. "Darling," she murmured softly, stroking the lump beneath the covers, "I know you're upset. You have every right to be." She'd had a lot to come to terms with over the last several weeks; the annulment, papa confining her to her room. At least that sorry business was over and done with, thank heaven. Papa had finally relinquished the key and after it had come to light that Branson had returned to Ireland, it no longer seemed necessary. Sybil had taken that piece of news rather badly, withdrawing further into herself and giving just about everyone the cold shoulder, with one odd exception: Miss O'Brien. Lord only knows why but that sour-faced old maid had become something of a go between.

At least now Sybil could begin the process of healing, Mary told herself. If only she could be convinced to leave her bedroom of her own accord. "I know it must be hard for you, but you can't hide in there forever..." Mary watched her sister's sullen expression expectantly but her gaze remained distant and stubbornly fixed on the bedside cabinet. "For one thing your patients need you," she said truthfully. "I'm no Florence Nightingale and Edith is driving all the officers loopy with her fussing." Mary gave Sybil's side a good-natured nudge. "Why don't you get dressed and come down with me...? We can see to them together..."

A long moment passed before Sybil blinked hopelessly up at her. "I can't," she uttered hoarsely from her pillow.

"Nonsense," Mary countered. "Of course you can."

Sybil's puffy eyes squeezed back the tears welling there, scrunching her features.

"Oh my darling," Mary crooned, leaning closer. "I know it feels like the end of the world now, but I promise you ..." she whispered, brushing Sybil's hair back from her hot face, "... it will get better."

Sybil's chin trembled just as she was about to speak. She tried again. "How do you stand it?" she asked sadly.

Mary baulked. The question was sincere but still jarring. Losing Matthew had been the single hardest thing she had ever endured, made worse by the fact that she had no-one else to blame but herself for ruining their chance at happiness. Mary shrugged. She wished she had the answer but there was no trick to it, no cure for a broken heart that she knew of. "It isn't easy," she replied. Some days the pining got too much. Other times she could push it aside quite freely and forget all about it, but the nagging feeling that she was missing something vitally important never completely went away. "Keeping busy helps," Mary suggested, though she could tell by Sybil's mien that she wasn't convinced. "What choice do we have? All we can do is hold our heads high, press on regardless and remember that we're Crawleys, and Crawleys never give up hope."

Sybil's wane smile crumpled. "It just... It hurts so much," she mewled, spreading a hand over her chest under the duvet as if to staunch the ache there.

Mary dabbed the moistness from her own eyes and, sprawling a little awkwardly the length of the bed, lay her head on the pillow beside her sister. "I know it does," she condoled. "And I know, on the face of it, curling into a ball and closing yourself off from the world seems like the best way to make it stop. But take it from me - it won't do any good, not in the long run." Mary reached out and tucked Sybil's tousled hair behind her ear the way their mother often did.

Sybil let out a ragged breath and brushed her tear-stained cheek. _'The long run'. _The prospect of a future without Tom was only just beginning to sink in. "We were so happy Mary, I don't understand. How could he leave like that?"

"He obviously wasn't the man you thought he was." Mary cut off Sybil's objection before she could raise it. "But even if I'm wrong, even if he had his reasons - there's nothing else for it. He's gone darling. You must be brave and put it all behind you." The image of Matthew walking into the main hall with Lavinia by his side reared its ugly head. "Somethings just aren't meant to be, no matter how badly we might want them." Mary's shadowed gaze refocused. "In any case, life moves on." It was an immutable fact. "You must too." Pushing herself upright, Mary paused to pat the quilt a few times in quick succession to rouse the lump beneath it. "And you must eat."

Sybil groaned into her pillow.

* * *

><p>"Did you see?" Cora asked excitedly, standing in the doorway to the library, smiling back into the lobby.<p>

Robert joined his wife and peered curiously around the door. "See what?" Following her line of sight, his own mood lightened greatly to find Sybil dressed in her nurse's uniform and crouched beside an amputee in a wheelchair helmed by Mary. _Thank God for that_. He had begun to worry he might never see Sybil up and about again, and drank in every detail. She looked a little ill herself; she'd lost weight and the telltale bags under her eyes gave away her insomnia but, nevertheless, she seemed content, much more like her old self, listening closely as she was to her patient, even smiling as the wheelchair-bound officer appeared to make a joke at his own expense. Sybil squeezed the young man's arm reassuringly and, giving instructions to Mary, rose and walked with them towards the hall.

Robert breathed an emotional sigh of relief not realising the tension he'd been holding in his shoulders and turned to find Cora grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she beamed.

Robert kissed his wife's cheek and turned back into the library. "It certainly is," he agreed, "and just in time."

Cora narrowed her eyes at her husband. "Just in time for what?" she probed, leaving the library door ajar.

Robert hesitated momentarily but before he could answer was interrupted by a timely knock on the half-open door.

Carson stepped into the room looking between them in anticipation. "You asked to see me m'lord?"

"Yes, Carson," Robert began, standing beside his bureau thumbing through a couple of letters. "I have a guest coming to dinner tomorrow evening. I realise its short notice and rations are running low, but could you ask Mrs Patmore to do her best."

Carson bowed his head imperceptibly. "Of course m'lord."

"Oh and I think a few bottles of the Madeira might be in order," Robert added. "It's a favourite of his if I remember rightly."

Cora aimed a pointed look at Robert but waited for Carson to take his leave before questioning him further. "Do I get to know the identity of your mystery guest," she wheedled, "or is that a secret too?"

Robert was familiar with that underlying tone. "I would have told you about dinner myself but Carson beat me to it," he said defensively. "I just thought it might be a nice surprise for Sybil that's all."

Cora doubted Sybil would be up to entertaining company just yet. "Robert, you know she's very fragile at the moment..."

"...which is precisely why a familiar face might be just the thing she needs to draw her out of her shell."

Cora arched her brow suspiciously. "So long as that's _all_ it is."

Robert took her meaning and did his level best to mask his expectation that his guest might turn out to be something more. "My dear, Larry Grey is an old friend of the family; I seriously doubt he's still carrying a torch for Sybil after all this time." One could only hope.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Sorry for the long wait. To be honest I love writing but it's not something that comes easily and finding the time is a continuing problem. Please be assured there will be a few more chapters at least and hopefully the end is in sight. Thank you.


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